Hoping, Crying, Waiting....

It has been a while since I have written anything. I have been battling writer’s block for enough months to be conferred a veteran soldier. Words have eluded me for so long that I am beginning to think that my creativity was more of an epiphany than a gift, like a fleeting solace to a soul searching wanderer. Many events have transpired in the past few months which were well capable of getting my creative juices flowing. But they have failed so spectacularly. To be fair, writing for me has never been a meticulous, time bound project. Although I am always found cooking plots in my head or creating rhyming couplets to weave into a new poem, they never amount to anything. I have not even found the proverbial muse yet, my holy grail which will bestow upon me it’s miraculous powers and turn everything I write into literary gold. Delusion and self destructiveness are something which has helped many a writers be prolific. But sadly I am sane enough, which by the way is also a mean to state on record that all those accidents just happen to me (contrary to popular belief). Like some other writers, I cannot make everything around me sound romantic. If that were true, the readers of this blog would be experiencing some really painful poetry since I am down with Rubella and have got some serious burns on my leg. But apparently Rubella itches more than it can inspire, which is a shame, given its exotic name. Hence tragically, a heart wrenching celebration of pain is unceremoniously replaced by the ramblings of a disease stricken girl who has slept too much during the day.

I have always written best in spurts, during those ecstatic moments when I am in a state of total abandon, while a magical force slowly creeps up beside me and I type away fearlessly and unabashedly. This is the only process of writing I am acquainted with and the best part of this process is that it has no pattern. I have written poems about pain after having a fantastic day and stories about loneliness after being spoilt rotten. Over the years I have grown to cherish these surprise rendezvous' which have never failed to leave me exhilarated. Writing is one of the very few things which make me feel productive and alive. My biggest fear is that I will spend my entire life without understanding it’s purpose. It’s said that a man is born twice, once when he arrives in this world and the second time, when he realizes exactly why he has come to this world. I am yet to reach the time of my second birth, but I strongly feel that writing will lead me there. And this is the reason why I cannot bear the cold shoulder my words have been giving me lately. I have been leading every minute of my life with the ominous knowledge that it is being wasted. Whenever I hear an appealing word, I start conjuring glorious tales and poetries knit around it and it’s utterly agonizing to see all that ending with a whimper. I long for that joy again, when I create something out of my own imagination, a new world of which I am the master, people who act on my whim, feel what I want them to feel and speak the words I put in their mouths. There is so much I want to say, but I wonder where the voice is gone. I really hope it comes back soon to hold my hand and pull me back from dissolving into my otherwise colorless routine.

It is excruciating to wait for something when you don’t know if it is fated to return. It is even more torturous when you know that waiting is the only option. Here is to my words that remain unspoken and verses that remain unconsummated, may you find your voice soon……

First Rain....

It’s that time of the year again. Overcast sky laden with thunder, looking over the frenzied, simmering city, suddenly explodes into that outburst it had been craving for. The air is suddenly redolent with that earthy scent and the sultriness is replaced with a breezy coolness. The raindrops fall in rhythmic unison drowning out the deafening noise. The city is awash with joy. It welcomes the rain with outstretched arms. No one is annoyed at being caught unaware, everyone drenches happily. No one seems to care that the roads are choked, they smile behind the wheel at the little puddles on the street. Everyone flocks the beach to rekindle the intimacy with their lives. Watching the sea swell, sipping piping hot tea and munching on corn on the cob, the first rain always manages to bring out the romantic in the city.

I am glad that I was not in my office, admiring this cloudy bliss from a window. I was on the road, bearing witness as the wind swept up, the sky darkened, the grey clouds stamped their authority with a loud thunder and the downpour began. And just like that, nothing was parched any more. I just rue the fact that I was all dressed up and missed my chance to get wet. I was on my way to attending the wedding of my friend of 18 years. I smiled to myself on the wedding gift she received from nature. In retrospect, I can’t think of a better day for the rain to arrive.

The City of Blinding Lights

I stand on the edge of the rocks and let the cool breeze graze my face and the gushing sea kiss my feet. I feel every inch of my body feel recharged. Little do I know that this sense of rejuvenation is going to be eroded by that awful stench the moment I turn around. “I am still new here”, I say to myself as I envy those who are enjoying the beach as if it were amidst a perfume factory. I walk back, battling the stinking air and stand under a palm tree facing the pavement abuzz with tiny bulbs. From the angle at which I am standing, this beach could easily be in Havana or Miami. But I doubt whether those place could do anything more for me, except temporarily satisfying the part of me struck by wanderlust. I turn around to catch a glimpse of the main reason why people come here. A friend had once ruefully observed about Bandstand, that it has been hyped just because of the residence of a single person. He missed the point that this person can own half of Mumbai which he does, in a certain sense. As I look at the small crowd which has gathered outside his gate to see him, I think that it is only befitting that the people of Mumbai worship Shah Rukh Khan. For, he is a tribute to this city of dreams, to the adage that anything can happen here, and to the belief that this city can be owned by anybody.

I look around myself at people having a good time. A group of college kids strike various poses to get photographed. They all look the same. The girls, thin as a stick wear skin fitting jeans with their T shirts sleeves rolled up to show a bit more of skin. Their hair is ironed to perfect straightness and they all speak in catchphrases with a fake accent. The boys in their baggy jeans and Mohawk hair flash their latest smart phones and behave like the most important people in the city. At their age, this city is not too big. As dusk begins to fade away and the night starts to fall, I decide to make a move before the traffic thickens.

My car gets stuck in the traffic the moment it gets on the highway. Looking at the highway gives me a rude shock, which again proves that I am still new. As far as I can lay my eyes, I see long winding stretches of roads, with their blinding lights. I suddenly miss the moments I had with myself at the beach. Moments of privacy are rare to come my here. Large hoardings line the street, with Shah Rukh Khan tearing out of one of them reiterating his larger than life impact on the city. The hoardings are the newest feature of the Mumbai skyline, the most effective tool to grab the attention of this “always on the move” city. Every celebrity worth his/her salt can be seen here, posing stylishly, flashing a smile, delivering a witty line, pointing towards a product and ordering you to buy one from your nearest supermarket/ showroom. The demureness and the confidence of these dashing celebrities are a mere façade hiding the feverishness of the corporate to capture the loyalty of the ever shifting consumer base. Loyalty, that elusive virtue, fast fading into obscurity in this city of blinding lights. You don’t belong to anyone but your ambition here, not to your values, not to your love, not to your brand, not to your employer. The traffic loosens a little and my car leaps into action like a leopard let out of a cage, only to be tamed into a halt a few minutes later. This is how most of Mumbai returns home after a day of overcoming hurdles, by crawling on choked streets. I like to think that this is befitting in a strange way, for it gives them the time to thank the universe for letting them survive another day. But then again I wonder, when do they live?

Monday Blues....not today!

Hi everyone,
I had the day off today (thanks to the UK banking system). All my friends who like me, are freshly catapulted into professional lives will completely understand the bliss a non working Monday can bring. I was informed about the holiday a few days ago, and since then my mind had been conjuring idyllic images of spending an afternoon at home on a summer weekday. It was brilliant indeed, lazing around the house, reading Austen and Wodehouse (my way of thanking the British for the day off) and not worrying about any deadline for once. Sure, I do these things on a weekend too, but doing them on a weekday gives me a different feeling altogether.

I was perched on my bed at 3:30 PM, sighing (yet again) at Mr. Darcy and saw the sunlight streaming in through the window. I know, it is hard to be romantic about sunlight in May, but hey, I was reading the mother of all romances. It filled me with inexplicable joy and contentment to sit in my sun kissed room. Just then, I realized how much I missed afternoons. I think afternoons are the most underrated part of the day. It is like the middle of a plot which takes it own sweet time to unfold. Holed up in my air conditioned cage of a workplace (which is not entirely bad this time of the year), I had forgotten about the laidback charm a pensive afternoon can bring. The post lunch sluggishness, the long siestas, sitting listlessly having meaningless conversations, has a lure of it's own. I walked around my whole house watching the rooms radiate with pleasure, bringing a smile on my lips. I then sat in the balcony, listening to the chirping of the birds and the noises of children and it was therapeutic. I remained seated in the balcony, later joined by my mother. We watched the kids play, talked a lot, admired her plants, sweat profusely and welcomed the dusk together. I guess these are the moments we live for. The little things we do with our loved ones, the quiet afternoons we spend with ourselves and the holidays we happily welcome after working hard....all in all, a great day!

Blank.....

I gaze at the paper, eager to pen my thoughts,
Blank as a slate, with bewilderment I am fraught.
Words elude me, or is it my feelings that are numb,
In this drunken world, to the stupor have I succumbed?

I reminisce fondly, when my words had flown like a river,
Now they twitch morosely, curdling in my pen that quivers.
I grope into my soul, grappling with blurring memories,
They refuse to be forced out, afraid to see the light of reality.

My paper remains blank, words dying a silent death,
Martyrs to my despair, shrouded in tears of regret.
And I sit in cold stillness, gaping at my friend once so ardent,
Sighing heavily at the silence, and the wordless night that I am going to spend.

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Songs of the Night

Sitting by my window, I watch as the darkness deepens,
Rejoicing the dawn of stillness, when everyone has drawn the curtains.
With no being stirring, this silence I dare not tease,
Drenched in my blissful solitude, with not a soul to please.

Losing what the day had brought, I converse with my dreams and designs,
Shedding others’ hopes and plans, left with only what is mine.
The wind makes me a promise, to carry me to my haven,
To take me to lands unseen, to attain all that I have craven.

Staring steadily out the door, I continue to be seduced by the dark
Learning about the joy of muteness, and the charm of the stark.
What a shame it is to sleep, and to wake up to the light,
Not to hear the unsung melody, and miss the songs of the night.

I gaze dreamily through the mist,
as the rain kisses the earth,
The dew descends on the grass,
and a longing takes birth.
To smile at your face,
while the wind runs through your hair,
To get drenched in this downpour,
so that no one sees my tear.

What a time it is for the parted souls,
to mourn and weep and mope,
Unseen in the privy fog,
lament covered under the cloudy cloak.
To pour their hearts brimming with grief,
like adding a drop in this deluge,
To let go of the dreams and memories,
which they no longer can use.

So I stand with my arms outstretched,
letting the breeze graze my face,
Submitting to the sky overcast,
absorbing the exhilarating pace.
For the water to seep through my skin,
and wash away all my pain,
And the wind to restore the life in me,
and dissolve my tears in the rain.