I think it is art that makes the world go round...

- Leaving soon?
- Yeah… tonight.
- So when are you coming back in Jan?

(silence… thoughts… millions)
- I’m not.

- Oh. Uh…
- I just got done with my Convocation; I’m leaving for good…
- Oh okay… Congratulations! That’s wonderful…
- Yeah… (whatever) thanks.
- So uh… we’ll see you sometime?
- Yeah… sometime… I guess…

My God. It IS really over.
Silence. Thoughts. Roar of the ocean. Silence.

Fable

You smell of smoke tonight, my love,

Ethereal, fleeting, like the wisps you’ve always been.

Your eyes are poison and your voice is hoarse

From my lies and your half-truths.

Through your tears into my nest

I touch your voice and watch it crumble.

Somewhere deep inside are colours

Which tell me that you still hurt.

Memory trains pull out of winter stations

Will you see me off?

Sometimes, though, you will be in need

Of the tears and the pain.

In your ashtray are the lost

Burnt and abandoned.

If they call you tonight through the blue,

Will you hear them?

Words are hidden in the furrows of your skin.

When I find them all, we shall craft

Your fable on parchment,

With treason and pain.

When naked winds shall

Streamline your ruggedness,

Send them to me with messages

And mauve melange.

As sunset tears me apart from

Your rain-drenched eyes,

Know that I am awash

In waves that speak your scent.

Fragile and tremulous, my love,

You are. And you may never know,

That ‘tis how I am too,

Without you...

To Manipal IV

It has been a year since I left the place, since I left Gauhati too, but that’s for a different post.


It has been the most eventful year of my life, a year of twists and turns, surprises and disappointments. I have come from being unsure to being slightly sure, I do not know which is worse. I have met new people, befriended some, and loved some.

I have met a couple of people who are going to be close to me throughout my life. Yes, the year has been fruitful. But somewhere lingers the steady pull of the languid sunsets and the beach, the lazy moonshine and the fervent partying, the discussions and the conclusions. When time stopped absolutely still, then dragged, but found me on the other side of four years nonetheless.

Somewhere deep down, as I walk down office corridors, I still feel that soon it will be time to go back to magic land. Almost there… I think, as I go back for three days for Convocation. Not so much for my degree but for the relaxation, in the lap of everything that is good (not necessarily positive, but definitely good). I know this is the last time, the next time will come much much later.

But I am looking forward to going and secretly wishing that I don’t need to come back. But the slight joy: when I board my return flight, I’ll look forward to office and the people special to me here…
the grass, the field, the other side, the greenery...

Nostalgia

The other day, we had a long some-software-blah-blah session in office. As far as I got, it was for managing projects… now most of it didn’t interest me and I don’t like feeling stupid. So I stopped listening. However, snatches of “You can do THAT with just a click”, “Everyone can define rights”, “Wow, that’s so powerful” took me back in time a long, long way…


I have always been an organized person. When we didn’t all have personal computers, we had files. My files were stashed, colour-coded and alphabetically stacked, in neat rows. When there were projects, there were paper, scraps, scissors, tape, adhesive, and a lot of yelling. The sense of accomplishment was immense, something that click-click-clicketty-click will never achieve. Every file, every project copy, every scrap book was treasured.

Files that were catalogued and cross-classified would be found in seconds, librarians in school knew where a particular book was before we could finish saying the entire name. There was ink, fountain-pens, refills and calligraphy. There was pride… and now, ink is probably a hue and calligraphy, a font.

I miss the paper days and dread the taking over of human intelligence and emotions by mammoth computing machines…

Erosion

Trembling in my arms,

Your fragile heart beats.

I watch it break sometimes,

And wonder what else I might give.

As the stars watched

Your soul lay bare, hollow

Wisps of desire haunt the night

In your words, in my dreams.

Hearing us both, you say

Is someone?

Does she take

The shape of my words?

Your rivers of tears

Erode the pebbles of my mind…

Rituals

Little, seemingly unimportant, acts done in the same order, at the same every day, bring a lot of order in my life.

I have had the same breakfast for eight months in office now, and not for lack of choice. I sandwich my omlette in my toast in the same way, I use the same coffee machine, I follow the same order of going about in the café during breakfast, every single day. Now the actions have become automatic, I do not need to think while I do any of this.
I shower before I go to bed at night. Yes, I know, that is unusual, but I cannot fall asleep until I do. Every night, it is the same order of events, replayed. This, in turn, helps me go over my day and plan the next. It helps me take stock of life.
When I get ready in the morning too, I am swift and I know exactly what goes with what and what else goes with the previous ‘whats’. It is because I become like a wound-up doll, executing the same steps of the doll-dance.
The Sufis believe that all of existence is a dance, and I completely agree. The steps are actually sequenced and if we manage to follow them, we get past most routine activities without even realizing that we did. Rituals are good mundane. Rituals are good.