Reminders of You

Just there, it hangs

In the clear sky

A purple flutter,

At that traffic light

Where, behind tinted windows

It was just you and I,

And we left

The world

On the the other side.

– G

Walking Home

I stand here
On the sidewalk
Across the street
From where you work
With hope in my hands
A melody in my head
Waiting to be written
To the words reflected
In your eyes
So we can walk together
Bumping shoulders
Kicking stones
Snickering at odd strangers
Pointing at alley cats
Sharing silly woes
All the little highs and lows
Humming ear worms
Making the ordinary, absurd.
Blowing soap bubbles
A million colours blurred.
Waiting
To turn your day around
Hear you laugh
Roll my eyes when you whine
Try and record the sound.
Hold your hand
Walk together
Back home.

– G

Call it Magic

Sometimes the days are roller coaster rides.

The movie I live in, is technicolor, with an oscillating background score and a whole bunch of volatile emotions flung about like pages torn from picture magazines, stuck on a large yellow wall, dotted with rough illustrations in ink, filled with mad things people say. And a desk.

Inevitable, that a bookshelf should extend from the floor to the ceiling. Sitting next to the large window with the wood chimes and the billowing white cotton curtain with golden elephants stamped all over.

Inevitable, that a cat should be curled up in the cushy corner that I want to occupy.

Inevitable for Ayn Rand to continue to recur in that corner of my field of vision.

The framed Beatles poster isn’t quite straight. There is a Bob Marley one too, hiding behind the door.
The pieces of the jigsaw puzzle lie scattered near my blue-yellow running shoes.

Ah, daydreams.

Surviving from run to run, waiting for the time to lace up and struggle every step up that hill repeat run, complaining about form and pace, building castles for the marathon coming up.

I’m just happy I’m running, that i can feel the wind in my hair, that I can feel my muscles complain about a rising mileage, that sweat dripping into my eyes is a sensation I can look forward to.

The memory of the profound simplicity of field life keeps piping up like an intelligent and obstinate child.
When did wanderlust find me and trap my soul? I cant remember.

I leave you with Coldplay playing Magic. The music floats in the air like ringlets of smoke or bubbles with a dot of rainbow, created from watered down shampoo and a pen without a refill.

NOT my last trip to the woods

for a while now (since i started on my field mission), i have been repeatedly told to document my experience.
i used to be the kind of person that couldnt stop writing. the actual matter written was of course only occasionally anything other than balderdash, but it was a record, if messy, of the goings on. anything that would be remotely interesting or cringe-worthy would be there for a future me to facepalm away my nights at. then various crowded-and-not-so-pleasant-encounters-in-my-life-later  i developed a block. i just couldnt get myself to sit in front of a mode of translation from brain-words to actual written words and put anything down. the ideas in my head were too muddled and my words not fully formed enough to force their own identity on me and push me to write them.

little has changed. except that, what is hopefully only my first mission, is coming to an end. a feeling resembling a rapidly growing hibiscus plant, is growing on me; the fear that these things im learning from everyday happenings, and accepting so matter-of-fact-ly into my thought pool will slowly fade, that this exponentially climbing learning curve will plateau and i will settle down into the rut of ‘civilised’ city life with little but memories that stand out as blotches of colour on an otherwise nonspecific canvas.

and i panic, sit up sweating from this mediocre nightmare, determined to not let that, of all things, happen.

hence, here i am, typing, typing, like a drowning girl frantically reaching out for a log of wood, hoping, that it  really is never too late, determined to store my remaining couple of months like a folded picture in my wallet that i can keep opening and looking at. finding new details in old memories, learning new things from old mistakes.

watch this space for ideas that may not be fully formed or snippets of happenings -to-me from the forests of chhattisgarh, if and when i am graced by the presence of network and a functioning internet connection. until then, count your blessings, enjoy your peace. 🙂 leave me to look forward to the gruelling work schedule about to kick all the holiday cheer stuffing out of me.no,nobody is forcing me to go. but me. sigh.

little things Big

Monday, June 15, 2009

Dust and grime 
Motorbikes and crime 
Heartbreak and crumpled tissue 
Big fights over trivial issues 
blackboards and bangles 
Shadows and candles 
rainy days and paper boats 
sand in my sandles 
summers on the swing 
mangoes aand the wind 
brown eyes and cosy things 
plectrums and guitar strings 
long fingers, fidgety hands 
royalty and ruby rings 
mynahs and sorrow 
mynahs and joy 
robins on the wire 
drongos magpies 
dusty roads and kicky stones 
basketball and sweat 
fouls and heated rows 
laughter and regret 
chocolate and cofee 
sticky smiles and toffee 
equations to remember 
conversations to forget 
exams and mondays 
maths, pencil scribble 
early morning coffee crave 
basketballs to dribble 
back alleys and dingy lanes 
garbage and the mangy cur 
waggy tails and wet licks 
fur on my sweater 
clouds and crying skies 
tears on my window pane 
memories which matter 
moments which remain.