A Nice Day

‎2 chick flicks, coffee, 3 chapters of 'Never Let Me Go' & sm amazin weather. A day off well spent. Delhi sky looked beautiful today, a kind of biblical look to it in the evening. This seems to have happened after ages! I saw helicopters (extremly fast flying big flies)-- I dont knw wt r they called still; that reminded me of running after them as a little girl in a park near my house. A happy memory that still hasnt faded away. And I hope it never does.
Memories are beautiful things if you dont have to deal with the past. This definitely falls under teh beautiful category.

Hi...

Heya...

Like the first inspiration to start a blog in 2007, even this one is kinda inspired from The Island Girl, who has come back to the blogosphere and has pressed the refresh button for me too. I welcome her back in her new avtaar. But I will stick to my old fashioned, old blog, with the hope that I will post more regularly from now on. So all those of you who had stopped loitering around in my world of meandering recollections, are welcome back. The only incentive will be some interesting writing and interesting stories to look forward to. Well as I have said before, words are all I have. So a warm welcome to all of you again! Happy Reading.

For you, a thousand times over

The vague dimensions of life can be overpowering. Hassan's love and loyalty to Amir is certainly a reflection of how innocent and beautiful a relationship can be, without asking for anything in return.
But sometimes i feel this vaccum. A space, when removed would only leave a gaping hole difficult for any one else to fill in. But the satisfaction of 'for you, a thousand times' over is beautiful too. A feeling that defies all odds. A smile that seems to stretch to both my ears and in turn reach my eyes. I hate my blank-eyed stary look.
For you, a thousand times over..

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The title of the post has been taken from Khaled Hosseini's book The Kiterunner. I read this book almost 2 years ago. This quote from the book is one of the best I have ever read.

Little Robin

Little Robin was busy. The innocent concentration, with which she was busy, seemed somewhat nice. She was busy watching the ants cross the road.

As the ants reached a tree, they started climbing the it. Robin’s attention went to the java plums (jaamuns). She started to watch java plums roll down from the tree onto the sidewalk. Waited for the next one and let the other one roll down and then next one and then next… Then suddenly she started looking at the way a leaf casts its shadow on the tree trunk.

While all the kids played around Robin quietly watched, not giving any attention to the interruptions which mostly were in the form of some extra-squeaky children playing in the nearby park.

Suddenly her mother came calling and was mad at her for not coming back home on time “Robin you got down from your school bus at 2. What have you been doing?”
Robin looked at her mother with her small black eyes. “Why is everything so specific? So different?”

And her mother said “Because God has made it that way,”

But what did not strike me at that time was that I would behave the same way in case of people. It did not strike me that we can never replace anyone because everyone is made up of such specific details. There are little details. So specific. Even indescribable. They are minuter than a person’s smile or eyes.

Robin still hasn’t grown up in that sense. May be she should not. Or should it be otherwise?

The Unicorn

I try to assemble the sound of a gurgling brook and the blueness of the skies, and still yearn for a unicorn. Something that is cool, white and serenely exquisite. Something that glistens and glitters in the forests like an alien.

Eventually I dance naked in the rain with my hands aloft, like a whirling dervish, feel the fat drops sting my skin and horrify the ones in Guccis and Pradas with this blatant and unashamed nudity. I let them put on their Raybans and allow them to try and block me, as they raise their Burberry umbrellas against the purging downpour- drenching my soul, nourishing my mind, cleansing my spirit and leaving it enshrined.

And in this marauding ecstasy I see the unicorn. I see it, till it dies in front of my eyes and the world becomes real and elusive. Its now that I long to jump into my attic of thoughts. I wait for the night so that I can discover castles right under the beds of fantasy, yet again.

The Mêlée

The longer I strive to take care of myself these days, the more I realise the significance of attitude or approach in life. Somehow, as I have begun to realise, that it is important than reality. The extraordinary thing is we have an alternative everyday regarding the attitude we will clinch for that day. We cannot change our past... we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. The only thing we can do is play on the one little filament that we have, and that is our attitude.
Watching someone leave from my life, (well you never entered it, I just made you a part of my world without realising anything), it does not make me cynical or harsh about certain emotions that I think will take a lot of time to get back to me again. Its just that unearthing them all over again is not the task that is on my priority list now.
Also firsts are always special in life. Apart from that the mollycoddled child that I have been, I am not used to any sort of soreness mentally.
I dislike certain things now. A little too much. I dislike myself for sitting at the same coffee shop and staring at the empty couch in front of me. I dislike my travel because the mind is in a wanderer’s stage then. I dislike being alone.
But there are solutions for everything. I am reading more then ever. I am watching more movies then ever. Listening to music more then ever. Writing more then ever. Shopping more then ever. Watching ‘Friends’ and the daily news a little too much, so that I am busy. Busy with life and its chores. One good thing is that all of it is also giving me the opportunity to become more passionate about certain other things. My family, friends and of course my reading sessions. I am just loving them.
I am converted over the fact that life is 10% what happens to me and 90% of how I react to it. So back on the real track might take some time but I am just close.
Also I don’t want to push anything aside. Playing squash is indeed a tough task. I want to move on with some really special and wonderful emotions buried somewhere that deserve nothing more then a lot of deference and respect. I was honest and so were you. Therefore I want to ask for nothing. I just want to look at the stars again, smell the rain again, feel the wind, play with children and fight for my dreams. The fight has already begun and this time with my own self…..

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The title of the post means a fight or battle

The Long Drawn Out Wait......

O Lord!
In your world, In my world, In our world
Why are hatred and war in attendance?
Your heart is so expansive
Yet why are ours so constricted?

At every step, why is there a boundary?
All this earth that is yours
Sun is what it revolves around
Why is it so shady still?
On this world’s veil,
why do I see blood’s colour everyday?

Echoing are the shouts of many
That pour like hot iron in the ears
Who wants to listen to the talks of love and tolerance?
Shattering are all the dreams
Who is going to gather all these scattered pieces?
Heart's doors are locked
Why are these locks so rusty?

My answer?
I am still waiting……

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A dedication to Mumbai. The mayhem in Mumbai has rocked the entire world.

The Uncertainity

There is a blur. A haze, that blurs the line between good and evil. So much so that I forget the difference between paranoid and patriot.
I try to run closer to truth. It is like a breathless chase. All of it churns my gut, hurling me against the wall.
A glimpse of it suddenly now and I want to run away. Run away from it all like mad. Madness surpassing any other emotion and live in a virtual dream world yet again. Totally on one side of the blur. But the blur coaxes through its own hoops and wants me to see through. And temptation. Well there is too much of it.
I try and look through, yet again. And the world stops ticking for a moment. Or does it really stop? It doesnt. Its just what I feel.
I hate this feeling. This feeling of uncertainity where I can see things somewhat clearly but accepting it untill things really happen is what I dont want to do.
All I do is request this somebody inside me to please grant me some sleep.

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We women have this bad habit of clinging on to our thoughts believing all that we want to. I hate myself for harming my own self with this. But reality might hurt more and it will. This certainity is killing too.

While my guitar gently weeps..

While half the world falls in love and half wakes up to get going for work, my heart wanders in search of free days and free nights and indulges in wishful thinking again, as usual....And all I manage is coax it, but the thoughts emerge like a volcano, all over again.

A scorching night and some cold air and I long to hold that hand. And I don’t even know if that hand wants to hold mine.

On a cold wintery evening, on a little hilltop, I want to listen to the silence. I want my eyes to well up looking at you. But I don’t even know if you want to look back.

I don’t know where is this world? I am not even sure if it will ever exist.
And while my guitar gently weeps, I want to lie in possible ambiguity, in the scorching night and the cold wintery night and go across the universe holding that hand, without that hand even knowing about it.

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The title has been taken from one of the very beautiful tracks by Beatles

Go Kiss the World

It is raining cats and dogs at an hour when I should not be out. Or may be I should be. Who cares? Do I? Anybody else does? I am running as fast as possible in small but still big pools of water, looking for shelter which is to be found nowhere.

I am all drenched up till the skin and may be far inside too, water dripping constantly from my nose, running like a penguin amid a small heard of people and going where all of them are. But a strong urge to not go with all of them and I suddenly take a back turn. Suddenly? No I thought about it for around ten seconds!

I try looking for a shelter on my own in a different direction on a way that looks bizarre, deserted and totally out of place. Well totally out of being a rebel without a cause. But still there is no regret, no guilt mounting up as it used to.

I find a place to stand for a while, one or two people passing by occasionally, somebody even making a pass. I give a bad stare and he shoves of for a while.
I pick up all my bags and finally rush into this Madame shop I had been looking for. The shutter would have gone down in another 5 minutes. Well made it just on time!!!!
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Is shopping a woman’s prerogative? Well not all the time. But its therapy for sure. Try it to believe it!! The title of the post has been taken from Subroto Bagchi’s new book

Singing it Right

TEST DRIVE

Battling butterflies in her stomach, our correspondent dons the avatar of a ghazal singer for an evening

I have always loved singing, and this led to my parents getting me trained in classical music as a kid. It did come to good use as I opted to spend an evening at the InterContinental Eros in Delhi as a ghazal singer. I met the team of musicians with whom I was going to perform at the the Singh Sahib restaurant in the hotel. This is where our audience of diners would sit. I met my team of musicians for the evening. We greeted each other with the customary aadaab. Our small team consists of Raja Ali on the harmonium who is also the head musician, Mohammad Mobeen Ahmed on the sitar and Shaqeel Ahmad on the tabla. The tehzeeb is unmistakable with these seasoned musicians. Priya Wankhade, the lead female singer of the group, was given an off today because yours truly was taking centrestage!

Becoming a ghazal singer for an evening sounds quite exciting but performing in front of an audience is no easy task. While we waited for people to enter the restaurant we tuned the instruments and kept our copies of ghazal lyrics handy.
It was soon 8.30 pm and here I was all set to start off my first song for the evening. That is when the butterflies in my stomach went into a tizzy. I should have had the pineapple juice offered to me when I entered the hotel. My polite refusal, with “Mera gala kharaab ho jayega” was not a wise decision especially now all I could say pleading for water was “Mera gala sookh raha hai!”

The word ghazal means, ‘to converse with the beloved’ in Arabic. Here the beloved were a group of hungry diners. Raja Ali knew it was difficult for me to begin, so he sang the customary traditional ‘vandana’. It did help me relax a bit, I then took a deep breath and began with Jagjit Singh’s ghazal Jhuki Jhuki si nazar bekaraar hai ke nahi. A few people from the audience seemed tickled by the choice of song, and smiled at me, I smiled back, but couldn’t linger on the attention. I had to look back at the diary for the lyrics.

While orders for tandoori chicken and paneer korma made their way to the kitchen and liquor made an appearance on the tables, I started on the second song, again a Jagjit Singh number— Hoton se choo lo tum, mera geet amar kar do. Now with their orders arriving at the table, few people were interested in the music. It felt a bit discouraging and I remembered what the food and beverage manager said to me before we began, “You can perform as long as my guests don’t run away!”

I tried to get my audience back with the popular Bollywood ghazal sung by Lata Mangeshkar, Aapki nazron ne samjha, pyar ke qabil mujhe. And well, this time I did get a few approving nods. Then I tried to touch on something more unconventional. I sang a Sufi number, Mere Maula karam ho karam, which was planned to be the last number of the evening. Half way through the song I realized that there was absolute silence around me, no clatter of fork and knives, no din of conversations. I sang this one with my eyes shut. I don’t know who was looking and who wasn’t and this time I did not care. I ended the evening with a Ghalib couplet: Hazaro khwahishe aisi ki har khwahish pe dum nikle, bahut nikle mere armaan phir bhi kam nikle ( A myriad desires were ours, for each we’d life forego. Many longings were fulfilled but too few even so.)

The crowd then finally applauded and there were a few song requests too! The evening was finally a success.
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One of my stories in Indian Express where passion and profession was merged into one

Hi

Hi people

I havent forgotten my blog. A lot of you have been complaining but I am just a little too occupied with my work. I am going to be back with a story soon. Thank you all of you for being concerned. Its a lovely feeling when people want you back.

Desire

Want is a terrible thing.
The desire, so difficult to tackle
that it is almost on the verge of breaking the complete inner self
The strange thing is that this desire is so strong that it is ready to overpower your completeness and rise like a deamon, all set to make life more messy. It hurts, hurts really hard in the abdomen somewhere.
Is it love?
Is it fear?
When am I going to feel the air that has the whiff of the bougainvillea (it does not have a whiff)
Its getting difficult by the day
I am going to do something about it soon
What exactly?
Well I will do what i want to
God! Want again!
But the pain has to stop before sleep overtakes me

The Balloon Man

Different shapes, different sizes, different colours and more colours and my heart surmises.

Looking at those wonderous stuff on the cart, the actual non fiction things that can ride the air and take my messages across layers, wriggling its way higher and higher, with the sun still glinting the effervescent colour, the feeling is incredibly overwhelming.

But mommy tells me to stay away from him. Even Anne’s mommy does. They say he will kidnap us one day. She never lets me buy the balloon myself.

My heart weakens when he isn’t there everyday as he never misses, come what may. The everyday shout, “Balloons.. different shapes, different sizes, different colours and more colours…”

Mouse shape is my darling. And the yellow doll that I get for one shilling

As he huffs and puffs, as his lips touch the balloons and they get ready to touch the moon, I have never seen an iota of ‘its difficult’ on his visage which is not smiling, neither angry, nor upset. The gas ones are the best and cost two shillings but are definitely worth it.

The Balloon man didn’t come today.

There is no wind either.

As I climb up the tree to let go off the balloon that is stuck in one of the branches I am able to stare across the wall.

He sits there with his back towards the wall, looking deep into the emptiness of the air, occasionally staring at a picture in deep reverie.

Our eyes meet and he signals me to enter.

I enter the open houseless porch and he smiles at me. At this point I definitely hope to get one of the yellow doll balloons for free.

He grabs me from my hand, puts me into his sack and all I can feel next is suffocation and two feet that are running hard. All I do is shout for my mommy!
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I trust people. But it doesn’t always go my way!

Nothingman's Birthday

If given a choice Nothingman would say this- "I don't like celebrating my birthday. Frankly, I don't know what the significance of birthdays is anymore. It's not like I don't want to be reminded that I am old. I grow older every day. I mean I am only one day older than yesterday, not one year. To me, time is a relative thing. It is an arbitrary unit created by quantifying events that happen. Why does an hour have 60 minutes? Why 24 hours in one day? If the people who created the units on Mars, would we get the same results? Mass and length do.

Back to birthdays, I just don't like it because I don't know how to feel on that day. Happy and grateful that I've survived another year? Sad and depressed that I've grown older but not wiser? Angry that no one remembers or cares about it? I sometimes feel alone and I want to be alone. Sometimes I even want to forget that day even. Every year I plan to hide and not be known. But every year I will go through those feelings and I hate that uncomfortable feeling the whole day.

I feel like I want a celebration, but I don’t like telling others my birthday. It is like there isn’t a point in giving out that information because I am not going to get anything. Even with loved ones, good friends, they all don’t remember. I don’t want to be reminding them; that is just blunt.

Others celebrate their birthdays by throwing a party and inviting a lot of people. I don’t do that anymore. I used to give out sweets to everyone in class and close friends on my birthday because that is the thing to do. My last biggest celebration was when I was 10 when even my father’s friends came. I have no idea why. As I grew older, the parties got smaller, even to a point of just a wish from my family. We used to be able to pick our own presents and nothing was ever a big surprise. From the kiddie toys to the story books, everything was what I wanted. In my teenage years, my gifts became more like everything I needed, practical items. This, was always given by my sister. In the end, whenever I get gifts or receive any, I would prefer something more lasting. I don’t like perishable goods, like chocolates or candy.

For the past few years now, I didn’t get any presents for my birthday. I am just getting used to that. Then it hit me as to why… it is just another day.

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Sourced from the Internet. But this time Nothingman gets this on his birthday as somewhere he feels some part of this (That's what i think) But anyways Many Happy returns of the day

To You, With Love (Part 2)

Kirrin has got a job and is all set to start off. However Sam does not stay with his parents and sister anymore. But things have genuinely improved. It is surprising that now gifts are exchanged. Of course monetary gifts can’t fill the vacuum that has existed for so long. But it is a start for sure.

She smiles while talking about him and ya is looking forward to good things happening in his life, so much so that she has found the middle ground and made a little compromise even in her career, of course other reasons beckoning her this decision.

Things are nice, hale and hearty but with a lot more scope to perk up and get better. It is just that both of them do not want to say things to each other. As of now they are just trying to do little so that it is not apparent to both of them.

Today its her turn to handover the envelope as he waits for his flight. All it says is this

Everyday I want to fly, stay by my side
Everyday I want to dream, stay by my side
Every morning I wish I could just play
Wish the mornings were just days!

They both look at each other, smile, somewhere a little teary eyed but not showing off, (the bull is strong I know) and live happily ever after. (Happily ever after is not always a technicolour dream that Bollywood is getting tired of. Its for real at times!)
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Well brothers! The uncanny lot! But things always improve for better. Well all I can do is adore and cherish the relationship that I have seen growing in spite of knowing just one side of it (that too in bits and pieces.) This one is gift for someone and this is not a repetition of the same subject for making emotions to overflow. Hope haven’t taken too much of liberty but had to give this honest and final post. Lemme know if the removal of this one from here will make you more happy….
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The 4 lines are curtsey Vodafone commercial.
* a little edit by the future sub editor:P

Finally Fifty!

It has been a little over 1 year (13 days to be precise) that I began with this blog and this is my 50th post on Meandering Recollections. And after all this hoopla that I have in my mind about my blog, I feel that I should have devoted more time to it. But the best part about my blog was that I wrote when I had this burly urge for writing, something unlike Nothigman who is really devoted towards churning out a new story every day, or unlike Island girl who would keep on writing things in her diary and post it when she has the time or unlike occasionally like Sid who would write about his everyday chores, now and then like Crazy apothecary who just disappears suddenly, sometimes like Random Ramblings where one liners are in abundance.

But one thing that I have realized is that my blog occupies a special place in my life. It hasn’t just made me a little more aware of the cyber world, the blogosphere has bombarded me with just so many emotions, so many write ups, verse, so many styles, a world where there is freedom in abundance, a world which is so unrestrained that concept of constriction does not apply.

Right from choosing the template which is black and grey (yes it isn’t white!) because i wanted to use the starkest of the contrast that exists but since life isn’t black and white, I used grey to write things that I never thought would see the light of the day and would have gone in the trash can (recycle bin to be precise, I hate my habit of not writing on the paper now and directly on computer) It has all been extremely special.

I thank all my readers- Nothingman, Island Girl, Zedekiah, Kindawierd, Impressionist, Codger, Crazy Apothecary and everybody else who visits my blog and posts comments have been looked after. Criticism or eulogy, I have enjoyed them all because for a comment to be critical or eulogizing, or for that matter a comment to be even there in first place, the writing has to be provocative and stimulating enough- good or bad. A lot of my stuff has been weird too but that’s how I am I guess.

As one of my good old acquaintances from Seattle had pointed out sometime back- “Journalists have a heightened perception of things.” (well he is going to pay for this one!). I just want to say that they are a little too sensitized towards issues which should not be equated with heightened perception. I have been fanatical about every word that has gone on this blog (except for a few)

Anyways, keep coming back and this blog is going to be there till the time I am there (I don’t say things that I don’t mean!)

The Corpse- Living and Dead

Jeanie’s body had a lot of fun today, the crudity and coarseness of the passion that the body sleeping next to her had showered, adding to her share of ‘fun’. The soul did not cry. It just kept on staring in the vacant. Unlike the difference of the body that would maul her everyday, this time things were quite unlike. She had been noticing the similitude for the last few days now.

The routine was set everyday but at the end of it all, what felt bruised was the actual Jeanie inside that Jeanie. It felt as if he would extract out the heart everyday from deep underneath her bosom and squash it in his right hand, the blood oozing from all sides of his hand and no clamour in the backdrop. The satisfaction would reach up to the level of absolute bliss for him similar to a baby getting what he wanted.

One day, the Jeanie inside that Jeanie was too bushed to handle it all. Today, she wanted to extract the heart. But the moment she tried to squeeze it, she was pushed into the next room where a burly giant with dirty teeth had a chef’s knife that shined in the dim light of the room.

As their lips rubbed against each other, Jeanie pulled the trigger of the little something that she had carried with her. The blood was splattered and in that pool of blood lay Jeanie.

After staring at the chef’s knife in her spinal cord, He smiled at the burly man saying, “How could you kiss her. I don’t share my women. ”

The trigger was pulled again and a body fell next to the pool of blood.
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I am generally not too gory with my stories. Just felt like adding a little blood this time. And ya you are free to make your guesses in concern with the last part.

Air...Its Ours!!!

This post can easily go back 2 years back, to my group discussion and interview day in the Mass Communication Dept. The topic was Sex Ratio in Haryana and Punjab. Well I can’t be modest here and can without doubt say that I was outstanding in the 1st round and knew that Iwould qualify. Another girl with braces on and nervousness hounding on spoke well and I knew that she was my competition in the group. Well she did make it and was always called the Sonia Gandhi of the class (she mimicked her really well)

On the first day I met this cousin of one of my batch mates from college, and ya we did hit off well enough to last forever (at least I can hope so). She thought that Nothingman (an extremely tall senior of ours) was a girl! Then there was this group of 4 girls from Carmel (well they all are a little too proud of the fact still, and it is a little irksome!!) A few more days, me and this cousin of my batchmate also became a part of this gang which comprised the gold medalist of the 1st year- a complete tomboy though girly at heart, a doe eyed beauty, a hard working girl with the perfect bun and the ‘kasauli cottage’ and last but not the least a devout Christian girl with loads of guy friends (chuckle!).

A Delhi girl who’ loved’ Delhi, literally was also around the group, her camaraderie and clashes very off and on with members of this gang of mine.

Then there was this guy who was the PR of the class. I chose him for my documentary and ya did we fight? Well like cats and dogs. All money collections for all parties, he was always out with a list. (Please read this post and return my fabindia folder.) This PR guy had a dusky Bong girlfriend (well I used to get a lot of compliments from her). She still remains the smartest Bong girl I have ever met.

Also there was this artiste, an amazing cartoonist and a pleasant person. Well apart from a dose of everyday hug, patting my nose was like a ritual. This artiste friend had a huge crush on this girl from sports quota. Amazing sportsperson and more then that somebody who knew how to lose gracefully. The sportsperson used to hang out a lot with one of her friends who was equally quiet but came across as an extremely nice person.

This artiste had a friend who still is known as the Mastermind of the media festival. His girlfriend, also called as the first lady of the festival (she also won Miss Mass Comm recently), could never really be my type of friend, though I knew her for 5 years. She may be happy in her own skin but I still feel that her pretentiousness was too overpowering for me to like her. No judgements here but ‘To each his own I guess’. I anyways wish her all the best.

Then there was this chick, the one, all guys would literally scuttle after. The one with a sexy dressing sense and perfect straight hair falling over her eyes and cheeks all the time, well man! In the words of guys, “She was hot!”. She had 2 friends, one a baby who had just not grown but had exceptional writing skills and one extremely tall girl who was too humble to be true but ya sweetness in profundity.

The media fest guy that I was talking about, also had an ex girlfriend. Well that’s not her identity but ya she was a little uncanny for me however extremely passionate about what she wanted in life. This uncanny friend used to be found a lot with the tallest girl in my class (She was 5 feet 8 inches and I used to tell her that I might ultimately end up with a guy as tall as you…and laughters!!). Her intrepid questions with conviction in MK’s class are worth recollection.

Then 2 girls I used to hang out with a lot. One a little too plump a girl (well that’s a cute way of saying that she was fat) and one so thin, that she looked like a malnourished child but ya we did spend some memorable times together.

Also there was this extremely cute chink guy who loved Rock music, a chink girl with mind blowing dressing sense and another chink girl with a Punjabi brother-in-law!

There was a guy who looked like a criminal (he was also our DR) and an extremely tall guy who had 2 kids at home but still wanted to be in the department (I still am unable to decipher as to what was he really upto.) Then there was my laughing partner who always cribbed about her ‘PG wali aunty’ and her plump and cute friend- her hi in the morning would brighten up quite a lot. There was also an extremely quiet girl, who I really became friends with towards the end of 1st year. Miss Serenity, extremely hardworking, but sweety, take a chill pill at times!

The girl who is getting married to the ‘Hawks’ guy, ‘aadha chammach’ and ‘sone’ girl, curly hair girl who loved to laugh aloud, another sportsperson, who has a 24 lakh per annum worth a job offer from America, a chamba girl, the décolletage girl (well the farewell day reminds me of that) who had a surd boyfriend, a sociologist with a weirdly sensual and sluggish talking style.

Gosh! At the end of it all, I am going to cherish everything! To count the number of memorable events is tough in this nightmare-cum-fantasy filled sleep which had lasted up till today. I lived through it all, and every moment left a deep impact in me. It isn't all about sadness, but about letting go. About committing the same mistakes, about not growing up

And yes in the end, my favourite line, I loved and unloved it all at the same time.

But the air in that department is definitely ours….Its going to be difficult not feeling it anymore!
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The last time I had written something like this, it was titled, ‘Air…Is it ours?’ and was a dedication to my seniors but this time as you see, things have changed. Dunno how true is the title given to me ‘Miss Intellectual’ but as I look at the mug which sits pretty with my teddy, it doesn’t take much time to go down the memory lane in a flash.

That One Moment....

That one moment, the ecstasy of touching those little fingers, making life a prospect, worth not just a glimpse but ‘pestering’ to see the entire landscape, tickling those soft feet, that gurgling with pleasure, every little sound like music to ears, as gentle as the rain that falls, as calm as the dew on the grass, like brightness in the night…..

Like that moment there would be no another, for somebody who became a father of a little baby girl today. The pride, the joy, the peace and the love, was oozing in the voice like blood from the veins, the weariness so muddled up with zest, that apart from him touching beauty today, surprisingly I ended up feeling it and yes……The conversation so cosmic and rich in texture that I felt guilty about talking about my life in the middle of something so special… !

Sometimes, somethings are just so honest and chaste, the untaintedness so overwhelming. That you can’t help but appreciate and value them.

Have you touched beauty? Ever? Not literally, I mean, But in any form, a way not tactile enough? Something not palpable and physical but still leaving a streak behind….

Well, I did that today. Sitting five thousand miles away from the source of joy.

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A dedication to a somebody special who became a father today. Somethings just don’t change and remain special!