An undesired low

To me, the written word has always signified infinite possibility. But it is also my worst enemy, just by virtue of being irreversible. So I tried to stop writing, as an armor against merciless censure, in the hope of a renewed reign of smiles. But of course, the experiment failed. Miserably, to put it mildly. I suffered the loss of my best friend, my sole trusted confidant. I had no place to rush to or to hide in those naked moments of fear. I'm back. I had to be.

Yes, you guessed it right. This space is a chronicle. A memoir written in blood, of endless moments of gut-wrenching pain, of unshed tears and muffled cries, of unanswered prayers and punishing blows. Today I will tell you about rejection.

Rejection, no matter how well deserved, is hard to swallow. It eats away at self-esteem like termites devour wood, almost imperceptibly but with the single goal to destroy. "Why me?" you cry. Everything seems impossibly hinged to the unforthcoming answer. You sink in your own eyes. And in the eyes of everyone else, it seems. Your flailing hands cause not a tiny flutter. The ether remains undisturbed. Your pleading eyes invite no sympathy. The world goes merrily on its way, its wheels well-oiled, its course unaltered.

In good times the cynic comes to the rescue. You laugh at the world and skip on. At other times you decide you were pursuing sour grapes after all. You haughtily turn and walk away. You know it is the worst time when all you want to do is curl up and die. No skip left in your step. No pride left in your heart. All you have left is your deflated self, crushed and discarded.

Unyielding

Every day I walk a tightrope. I walk gingerly, for there is no room for mistakes. A mistake is impossible to recover from. The next day I pretend like it never happened. But Alas! The cracks and scars are permanent. They've even spawned their own crutch- an ever-growing list of dos and don'ts. Of what real use is a crutch to a tightrope walker? You would think practice is the answer. Believe me I do. I learn every time I fall and etch the lessons in my mind and repeat them to myself until they are rote. Of what use is my memory when I walk a new rope each day?

I am indeed the only imperfection in this perfect world I live in. This is a world where everything has already been carefully considered and a single right way has already been defined for every little thing. Transgressions are unacceptable and should not be attempted. Excuses are unheard of. Doors once closed remain closed. Others open at the right time, when they should. Everything happens for a reason and with clockwork precision. Of course you have a choice. You either do it the right way or you are left stranded, cold and shivering, the world around you a silent dark desert.

I breach boundaries, sometimes unknowingly, sometimes in an effort to push them a little- a tiny leap of faith if you will. The punishment is instant. The curtain falls for the day. Show is over folks! No second chance to cover up when I forget my lines, no witty comebacks, not even a stammered apology. Well, I guess that's life, decisive and unforgiving.

Obituary

The idealist who lived here died, at least in part.

The clocks struck twelve. The fairy tale is over. Don't waste any more time here, there is no beauty to be had.

Dogs don't smile anymore. The coffee has turned cold and bitter. Trees stand still, no dance in their sway. That gentle breeze has blown itself out, taking with it the candlelight and the scent of the rose. The sea is still inviting, but consumptively so. The shiny young leaf has long become a relic, drained and dry.

Flap Flap! Hope flees at lightning speed. Ouch! Memories have razor edges. Swoon! Patience takes the plunge over the brink.

Well, I told you so. The idealist who lived here died. Come, join this dirge... Come, help gather these pitiful remains...

Love in absentia

Oftentimes life is like a movie trailer, scenes from the future handpicked and perfectly orchestrated that leave us wanting more. We have in us a certain innocence that makes us want to believe that the promises will be kept. For if we don't, we will be left with pitifully few things worthy of fervent pursuit. Relationships can be tempting trailers followed by hard tests of endurance. At times we learn more about ourselves through relationships than even meticulous introspection.

Sometimes a relationship begs for silence. It ceases to be about sharing the small things that make you smile or about narrating every interesting thought. It takes standing aside and quietly watching life go on without intrusion. It takes waiting and hoping that it will be as fantastic as the trailer promised it will be. This silence would be easy, if only it was not indefinite.

There is a nebulous region in every relationship where it becomes less about getting every little thing you want and more about gratefully accepting the little you receive. Interestingly, this is the region where we grow. We stand deserted by time and energy that once seemed infinite. We recognize new boundaries. We learn how to trivialize ourselves. We learn how to recall the beautiful beginnings and continue to feel fortunate in an altered world.

And when the shiny newness wears away we muster the imagination, sometimes even delusion, to paint a silver lining. We realize that the colorful cocoon we lived in has broken, or maybe was imaginary all along. We give in to reality smiling its dazzling smile and shaking its proud head, saying "I told you so."

Rhetoric

Is it real,
your love for a spontaneity
you refuse to intercept
when it passes you by?

Should it be,
this intrusive impulse
that wedges itself opaque
between you and me?

Ceding to change

Today the mind dwells on change. The mechanics of change is admittedly fascinating, no matter how hard we try to resist it. It is much like salt dissolving in water. The water makes the vainest of attempts to allow the grains to sink to the bottom intact. But they diminish, melt and vanish without a trace. Appearances may defy the truth. But the water stands changed for good, its pristine form so starkly violated. Change really is the only true permanence. For when the change is complete and you look back, the past seems so unlikely and almost wrong.

Solitude was something I thought I understood, although I vacillated between love and hate for it. Now I face a new solitude I never sought. It is the kind I cannot mourn with cryptic elegies or immortalize with heartbreaking verse. Books cannot banish it, the sea cannot snatch it, there is no distraction from it. It is still solitude, albeit a changed one.

"Detachment is a virtue," I always philosophized. The day has come when it seems like a necessity and I find I'm one virtue short. Maybe I lost it in a euphoric journey, maybe it is hiding, maybe it is masquerading. The detachment I feel today is a mere impostor that cannot numb me to the reproach I feel or eclipse the devious deceptions of the world.

I look back and rightly see a past so ludicrous. I wonder if I am beginning to love this solitude criss-crossed with dear memories. I wonder if I ever want to find that cold detachment again.

Prisoner to perfection

There are times when you feel adrift, much like a sailboat bound nowhere. You feel the last strand of cognizance slipping away. In one such stupor, a voice called out to me. A soft voice with little to say, but cradling me in its intonations full of care, and washing me in its resonant melody. I held on to it, I played it in my head like I do my favorite songs, on repeat. Ever so slowly, I learned to read it. It shivered in rage and faltered with emotion. I learned that the voice could smile...

Soon came the banter- countless intellectual journeys into the world of sports, critiques of the silver screen, a beatific flirtation with the written word, poetic trysts with Neruda, magical odysseys with Floyd. Hours flew by, the exploration stretched on, oblivious to night and day. Music flowed, songs sung for a sole listener. Bards of yore and great maestros took turns to visit. The river of life danced in mirth...

An indulgent breeze floated in, bringing with it the aroma of orchids and roses, a delightful midnight surprise! Surging waves, seaside promenades and moonlit silences reigned unresisted. The breeze, unannounced, turned into a velvet caress, a lover's warm embrace, a melting first kiss. So imperceptibly did it turn into a promise of eternity...

This promise renders me speechless. This dream restores innocence. This hope breathes new life. This perfection, it holds me prisoner...

A million imagined sorrows

The radiant sun sears my soul. The rain, much awaited, feels like a thousand needles. The leathery ocean swirls about me, its inertia, sluggish and contagious. The flowers have faded away unnoticed, a few await their turn, languid and sighing. There is refusal in the sway of the trees, heartless deception in every passing cloud. The maiden night is blue and starry. She stops short at my window, for sobs and shivers diligently stand guard.

My mind swells with questions. I pretend not to know the answers, for they will seek and stab every buried hope. Every minute brings a different conclusion, linchpin after excruciating linchpin, keepsakes from life's countless lessons. Everywhere I turn, a limitless blank wall looms up. Anger bounces back. Sadness echoes its sonorous silence. Darkness seeps down as the menacing walls close in.

This agony I've invented, it imposes on me the weight of a million years. I have to stop. I can say no more.

An escapist route

Just for a day, I became a child again. Mickey and Donald, Aladdin and Alice, Simba and Mogli, all pranced around me. I danced with them, in an innocent attempt to bring back those fairy tale days.

I was walking on the road, my palm safely locked in my father's. We were going to the bookstore to buy my book for the month. There was so much anticipation, long moments of deliberation, as I struggled to make the difficult choice between Rapunzel and Peter Pan. But I asked only for one book every month, no more.

I walked alone for miles on end, playing the wide eyed traveler, giving in to truant whims and wayward thoughts. I reveled in the cat calls that came my way. I pleasured in those envious glances as I slurped my ice cream as if it was the only thing I lived for. Words, in tongues both familiar and novel, hung around in an unintelligible buzz. Smiles from strangers flashed on and off in my head.

I've always lived in a fantasy land, my own dear creation. I mostly lurk in folds of an improbable imagination. For the world outside is really gray in comparison.

I sat at the very top of the Ferris Wheel, Sun Wheel, they called this one. I sat drenched in the midday sun, the cool air, such a welcome soporific. The cage I sat in swung back and forth as it gently descended to the shimmering water a hundred feet below.

January! Carnival time again. I hopped from one colorful store to the next, my fingers sticky with cotton candy and lips chapped from salty popcorn. I rode the Ferris Wheel, Giant Wheel, we called it, three times in a row. I loved the slight tug in my stomach each time I zipped down to the ground. I savored the feeling of power when I paused at what seemed like the top of the world. When I get out I will stand in the line one more time.

I walked in that world of animals that sing and birds that talk. I cut across pictures being shot, soon to be hung up on familiar walls, souvenirs offering timelessness. I searched for a souvenir to record these memories. No wall can hold them. For these thoughts are too fluid, part of a continuum, heavy with drama. How do I frame such enormity, such flux?

It is my birthday, an uneventful listless day so far. I walk into my house to the collective cheer of every person I considered friend. A cake waited with glowing candles. They handed me a scrapbook. Every page was handmade by my friends, crafted with such care. They somehow magically framed the enormity. That moment of surprise and gratitude, I will remember forever. I swept the room with my eyes, all I could say was a silent thank you.

It was another day straight out of the fairy tales I still hold on to. They agreed with me, Lilo and Stitch, Belle and Beast, that perfect endings were true indeed. They even dazzled me with a promise of my own sweet ending -happily ever after.What must it feel like to be Cinderella, kissing her prince on her special night? What must it feel like, such hard earned freedom, such unexpected love! Such thrill is but imagined. It is the solitude that is real.

I tire myself, more often than I should. The fatigue can be unbearable. The grief can be morbid. I've always wondered about the reason behind this extreme turbulence. I always emerge confused whether it is the cause or the effect. I would wrap this life and gift it away. Alas! It takes a brave martyr to be my rudder...

Discoveries, this New York Summer

I walked up to the metal railing overlooking the water. The Hudson rolled on, sheer blue and mossy green as far as my eyes could stretch. The sun was setting at the far horizon, saying its leisurely adieu to a dimming world. James Joyce in hand, I leaned on the railing, lost in Stephen Dedalus' simple world. Today was a day of compliments. First for my carelessly hummed song, then for my unruly long hair. From passersby I might never cross paths with again. They evoked a smile, nevertheless. When will it cease, this abject need for acceptance, for appreciation and validation from the world? Will it ever come, a day of peace?

My eyes lazily traced a narrow rickety bridge. At the end of the bridge floated a barge. The barge was unchained. And every moment it spent trying to float away. So pitiful was its freedom. For the barge was prisoner to four tall pillars rising up from the riverbed, allowing it just a constant sway and an occasional bounce. Free! Only nearly. That barge is you. That barge is me. The river is our world. In its meandering whim and turbulent vagaries lie infinite possibility and enchanting vices. And there stand the imposing pillars of society, of rote conditioning and unbending rules. There stand the proud guardians of the right and the wrong.

I could hear music in the distance, from a crowded bar full of weekend revelers. Only the shriller notes and the clang of drums made the distance to me, leaving to my hungry imagination the melody and the mood. I watched a group of teenagers dancing. They took turns to show off their double flips and straight splits, their jealous eyes searching surreptitiously for the passing admirer. I absently looked on at the subtle rivalry as they vied with each other for little glories. It was all unfolding in front of my eyes, the birth of the adolescent ego, the slow demise of innocent pleasure.

I sighed at a couple as they casually fell into step and melted into easy conversation, thanks to their dogs playing cupid between them. I walked by a dog park and felt a rush of affection for my dead dog back home. I wondered what life was like for the senile gentleman leaning on his walking stick. Was it burdensome, his long memory? What did his solitude feel like, satisfied or lonely? I touched the edge of the page I was reading. Suddenly I swelled with gratitude for all the moments of pleasure my books had gifted me. Books obviate people. But much like humans, books make me smile, they make me cry, they please, they hurt, they tempt me only to later desert me.

In a strange coincidence, I had them all today. My book. The water. Music and happy thoughts. Even the rising white moon. But it was missing, the sound of a footstep by my side. It was missing, that warm arm around my shoulder. Can this solitude ever be perfect?

Soon...

I dared to peer hard and far into the future. I saw many sights. Some redeeming, some surprising, some mocking at me for even trying. So what do I tell you about? What can I tell you about from within this dreadful circle of fire I've lit around us?

I could sketch your radiant smile and your mischievous wink. I could imitate your carefree gait and your singing voice now, here. I could describe that air of success about you. Your passion will persist, I can tell you that too. Those people I see, they must care for sure. For they eye you from near and afar with such solemn pride. You are unfettered! Such flawless freedom, a lover's parting gift maybe? You are shrouded in a surging love. A love so imperceptible and accommodating, a mother's unfathomable ocean, likely. I found you looking up at that tempting cloud, hoping for rain, for a quick shower of joy. I caught you smiling to yourself, probably traipsing down a fond lane of memory. I watched your hop, your skip and that tiny dance in your step. Your world must be a happy place, I thought to myself.

Won't it be a sin to taint that pristine sight with presumptuousness? Won't it be unforgivable to undeservedly ask to share that gift, so rightfully yours? The slightest wrong wish, however sincere, can pitifully raze that delicate castle of cards. I would shield that beautiful tomorrow even from indefatigable hope. For such perfection is beyond hope, beyond possibility, beyond my farthest reach.

Under the dark shell

River Urubamba, Peru

Stop. Read no more. Go away! This is the river of hurt, swelling with pain and a passion that can kill. Don't take another step, for you are in Fear's proud kingdom. Beware! Nightmares masquerading as dreams will usher you in with angelic smiles and pleasantries. Only to trap you and devour you. Here is Reality, rearing its rational head. Behold from afar, Fate's boiling blood. Doesn't it make you shiver, Nature's relentless revenge?

A child once lived here, at a time when one could still see the crystal cascade and the meandering stream. On a fateful day she peeked out from under the layers protecting her. Enthralled by what she saw, she tiptoed out, getting braver with every moment. In an adventurous whim, she left the confines of her customary hiding place and extended her innocent hand to the wide wondrous world. They made a comely duo. They held hands and whirled around together in seemingly unending bliss.








On the Inca Trail, Peru

In all ingenuity she gave herself to her newfound world. She became every crystal droplet in the waterfall, tirelessly falling from the sky to anoint the barren earth. She turned into a cloud and kissed those yearning peaks. She was every flower bobbing in those fields. She was the slanting sun ray illuminating the universe. She flowed, she swayed, she submitted to every demand. All in hope of keeping forever the beatitude she cherished from that fateful day. For she naively believed in goodness, justice and some sort of permanence.

Saqsaywaman, Peru

But this sadistic world would not let the idealist be. Fate methodically destroyed belief after belief, precise and painful. The river of hurt ran red with spite and venom. The Halloween was over, the ugly nightmares stripped themselves bare. She was shrouded all around by a new nature, so cold and gray. Fear left an indelible scar on her unsuspecting trust. The child receded into its trusted shell. Not for this child, this merciless river, not its love, not its hate. The child will live on, but in deeper waters untouched by harsh turbulence, only in a safe world of words.

Machu Picchu, Peru

Charmed

Yesterday, for a moment, my life soared and flew away. Mundane pains vanished. My feet forgave the cold hard floor, my squinting eyes welcomed the intrusive sun. Hunger pangs gnawed lesser. Even morning birds sang sweeter. My insomnia was rewarded. All in a blur of white and blue.

He gently strode in and brightened my room. There he was, mischievous grin and cocked head, searching my eyes for surprise. His hair was neatly parted and flew lightly in the soft breeze. His smile announced triumph and a trace of fondness I cannot forget. I memorized the shape of his lips as he talked, his rounded o's and pursed pause. I almost touched the questions lurking in his furrowed brow. And I built my castles with his waving hands. He often looked upwards, maybe at an instant bubble of memory from which he sought for me tales of yore. Many a time, the gleam in his eye was a precursor to his forthcoming wit. Most other times, his eyes, they spoke a language of their own, esoteric and disarming.

He took me on a tour. Around a city in five minutes, incomplete but inviting, much like everything else about him. He pointed to a distant sea and I painted a lone ship. I carefully gleaned the city's sounds. I folded and put them away to fill later the silences in my head. I etched the skyline in my mind, also his silhouetted form against the magical light. I saved them all, his home, his lawns, his favorite swing. Now I have pictures I will beckon to make perfect backdrops for future conversations.

Yesterday was better than my first fantasy, my speechless thoughts more lyrical than my best poem, my heart fluttering in frolic. Such a day, I simply want to befriend and cajole to stay.

PS: 100th post! Fortunately it is something I want to remember.

Today's Quest

A vain search
for unearthly strength
to wipe you
off this dear space.

To no avail,
my absurd search
for deeper recesses
to hide you from me.

Welcome tyranny

He ruled over her. And the time and space between them. He ruled with routine, with a hierarchy of priorities she had learned to defer to. There was not much room for negotiation, or even pleas for that matter. His was the hand of logic and an extreme rationality that belied his claims of sentiment and affection. His affection itself was like the summer rain, intermittent and harsh. His will condemned, even stymied, her impulse. His spontaneity was prisoner to his practiced principles, she could not recognize it even in its rare moments of nakedness. His decision often hung like a veil between them, delicate yet perceptibly forceful in its permanence. His joy wrapped her in a new beauty each time; but naturally this cloak was not hers to keep, it heartlessly melted at her accidental touch. His anger silenced her, a muted wait for a kinder word and a softer countenance. His presence was the morning sun blinding her eye. His absence was the brutal chill of the December wind. His rule is here to stay, real and final.

Fits and Starts

Engulfed!
Rankling doubt- gray seas, churning
9pm sun- novelty and charm
Fogged heart- still in wintry solitude

Deceived!
Trusted promise- fading ripple, so sly
Glass cage- cruel big city
Favorite fantasies- just wispy cotton candy

PS: No will to string the words together. So make your own story.

Allow me my fear

What did you do with my callousness? Did you claim it to recycle it?

My conviction in the disutility of emotional attachment, it is broken and battered and sneering at me from my dusty attic.

Unfulfilled ambitions have sprung back to life, newly whetted and whipped. Now they know not their way back home.

My perfected mechanism of loose knots, measured distance and algebraic control suddenly stopped functioning. I have no tools to mend it, no oil will grease it back to motion.

Anger is snoozing in the stands, patience is keeping goal.

My sharp tongue is losing its acridity. Words have lost their sting. Ego has gone into indefinite hibernation.

In many little ways, in arguably good ways, I don't recognize myself. Pray, tell me now, how should I feel anything but fear of this unsettling unknown?

Yours truly

Take my patience,
lose it or hide it irretrievably.
And thus be absolved indefinitely
from my prolific demands.

Is my absence imperceptible enough?
It is my gift to you,
of freedom from my invasiveness,
in gratitude for your indulgence.

Tell me my silence is dulcet.
For I deliberately lost my voice
and laboriously buried my words
to create for you this strange silence.

My insignificance should suffice,
to restore the familiarity
that I selfishly snatched from you
when I crashed into your merry life.

Accept my offerings.
And grant me my hope,
of atonement for my follies,
of a guiltless slumber.

Defences, so futile

This deluge of tears refuses to stop or dry in time. And life today is an inconsistent film of oil stagnant on its surface, the painful patches- a tattered map of a coherent past. I squint at the sun through this curtain of tears. Colors shine and shimmer, but no memories arise of previous rainbows. The refracted world holds but watery promises.

No one knows my tears better than this corner of my house. These walls meet only to gently hold me as I sink to newer nadirs. This far corner, my invisible cradle for impossible sorrows. Literary excess and musical heavens are unreal worlds offering a temporary mirth. Beloved words and strains of melody- rivulets of joy that weave around me a faithful armor for such days of war.

Litany

Every day,
I write to you,
if only to rehearse
those wordless, voiceless
circular thoughts.

Oh! They are still real-
those forbidden thoughts.
For every day
I rehearse them,
sans words, sans voice.

All I can do

You can have my fairy,
glistening wand and all.
I will blow your way
any luck I find today.

You must take my prayer,
take my eellike God.
Drenched in a venal shower,
He will saunter over.

You shall have my smile,
and those I borrow for you.
This wave will wash away,
not a ripple will stay.

Genuflection

She was just another passerby, she almost remained one. But she was scooped up by an epiphany, ravaged by a singular instinct and tossed about in a vortex of improbable dreams. That moment lingered. Transfixed by its enormity, she stayed on.

"Life is just a series of choices. It's all very binary", had been her unequivocal stance for years. This time, there was no choice. Fate had gripped her by the gut and categorically handed her the red pill. Her feigned black and white life was drenched in a sudden spurt of color. Even beauty, as she reluctantly admitted when no one was listening. Red, purple and blue. Almost too true.

She unwittingly had something to hold, to crush and try to break if she wanted to; everything she could never do to her mercurial theories. Alas! This choice was but a mirage, vicarious and tantalizing. She rightly lacked the courage to destroy or even deny what threatened to be her only claim to truth. Such serendipity will not repeat itself, will it?

An unseasonal rain may claim her beautiful colors. Serendipity may not be eternal, after all. She could be reduced to a passerby again. But for now, the moment stays frozen, she stays brazen.

PS: Cryptic as ever, a rather vain attempt at capturing an indescribably awe-inspiring moment of submission. Brickbats appreciated...

Truth

Gladly, will I show you
newer ways to hate me.
Gladly, every day!
Who better than me, any day?

Tongue-tied

The ink in my pen has dried up. I have no words to describe this strange reality. I cannot wrap my secrets in esoteric verse anymore. Where can I hide in a room of mirrors?

I'm living my choices, of honesty and innocence. I'm living my philosophies, some hypotheses I hurl out the window, others, I set in stone.

I willingly handed over the reins I hitherto held on so dearly to. I readily became a powerless blade of grass, swaying to the whims of the wind, bending to the might of the rain, blending with the miscellany of the world.

I seek not to be special. I seek not the smallest of favors. All I want is a shield from the distant hopelessness that eyes me with threatening glee.

I was reborn today in youthful exuberance. But I relegated myself to a silent crucible to wait and watch life unfold. Stretching the tendons of my patience and will, an acid test of my hope.

Attack of the wee hours

And thus I relinquish
my jaded search for
tomorrow's foggy fortune,
to relish precious today.

And thus I recite
these garbled words with
ironically mimicked conviction,
to salvage deserting faith.

For how much longer
can they persist,
my borrowed smile,
and this stolen hope?

For the day is
not too far away
when truth decides
to rest its case.

PS: Travails of my sleep deprived mind

Enslaved

Smiles reign cyclical windows
of time, too fast and finite,
Nature curses me with
her precision clockwork.

PS: I'm probably enslaved by my four-liners too. I need to stop!

Escapism

Hiding in dark crevices
of cryptic verse,
belittling the power
of the truth, so naked.

Confession

Every faceless person-
a child of deception,
just a lowly pawn in
my checkered pursuits.

Craft

Clever camouflage
of feisty superlatives,
sprightliness that deceives
neither you nor me.

Lament

Can my words, hurriedly scrawled,
capture the pathos of
these trivial moments
I die to tell you about?

Can my thoughts, ardently willed,
travel long weary miles
without fear of wrath
for untimely transgression?

These days...

Lost in an ethereal
maze of words...
A treasure hunt
worth an eternity.

Unfettered by chains
of crippling want...
Freedom, akin to a
walk in the rain.

Sigh

Fervently, do I seek
long lost innocence,
albeit through designs
that defeat the end.

Estranged reality

So deceptively easy-
living a surreal life,
in the indistinguishable medley
of dying night and dawning day.

Irrational obstinacy-
the remnant reluctance,
to destroy the tangled web
of a misjudged past.

Such humongous effort-
turning a blind eye,
to the insidious enticements
of the wicked unknown.

My newest vice

I have long been resigned to the fact that I am not a contented person. I almost cherish and nurture discontent, for I believe it is a harbinger of ambition, and consequently, achievement. But for the first time in my life greed accosted me and now I know how different a beast it really is. Greed can seep up like the slow warmth of alcohol slipping down the throat. Warmth that rapidly becomes an unforgiving heat, a burning desire. What I naively imagined to be an ephemeral tryst with an unknown vice opened a Pandora's Box of realization.

I'm greedy for time. Time for pursuits close to my heart. Time for those special few. Such greed, only timelessness can sate. Even eternity is insufficient.

The times when I behave like there's no tomorrow. The uncontrollable urge to bare my entire self within moments. The involuntary rush to talk faster than my racing thoughts. The constant battle with nature to stretch time on the sly. All of this is greed indeed.

There is greed in the questions that haunt my mind. In my undying thirst for an instant answer to every question, every time. And in my need to dichotomize all of life into right and wrong. There is greed in my determination to wipe away every threatening hint of gray.

Greed rules the need for approval. The craving to be wanted, accepted and appreciated blurs the line between the normal and the irrational. Importance is an avaricious quest, the unfortunate weakness of our insecure race.

Restlessness is a form of greed. Impatience, its inevitable child. There is greed in the urge to second guess life, in the hunt for binoculars to get a sneak preview of the future.

Greed! My newest acquaintance. Greed! The mother of my insomnia.

PS: Musings during my flight down to Peru. Glories of wonderful Peru coming up soon!

Dearest Stranger

You trespass on territories of my mind I am yet to christen. Born in a moment of hopelessness, you could have well been the proverbial cul-de-sac. Instead, you brought with you a promise, an arcane wisdom I accept without question. You induce a magical silence... a reassuring calm that life will be recognizable again. You effortlessly paint a beauty you don't see yourself. You epitomize possibility. And a hitherto unknown desire for perfection. You lend me your ear and your voice. I know not your touch, or even your face, for that matter.

But thanks to you, I stop to listen to the spring bird's song. I hold my breath as I pass the river on my way home. I stand unaffected amidst milling masses, counting stars and searching the moon for your hiding face. I even smile as the chilly wind rushes through my hair. The coffee between my hands rouses thoughts of a lover's warmth. My snug coat feels like an embrace. The roaring airplane above makes me yearn to fly. The universe is enticing again!

Stranger who rules my mind! Who are you? How do you evoke such excess?

Delusional

I make half-hearted
promises to an
imagined god, a barter
against my dark demands

Powerless

I mutely watch flippant Fate tease, torment and threaten my tenuous hope

I meekly submit to a reign of reason, to the wisdom of age

I sorely nurse my thwarted impulse and my admonished whim

I bleakly dream of a forgiving life, a forgotten mirth

Transience

Rebellious,                        The night swirled,              And day broke,                  Motionless,
She sinned,                       desultory                           shattering                          He sleeps,
rejecting her                      words of                           the night's                         fermenting her
virtuous guilt                     whispered pleasure             fictive castle                      amorous mind

Reverse precis

The world tilted 45 degrees as we climbed higher in an upward swoop. Below me a polka dotted glory of lights shrunk rapidly and disappeared. I looked around at my fellow travelers, some with a book in hand, some with earphones plugged into their ears. Our iPods generated our very own personal worlds, silent on the outside, musical on the inside. Spotlit heads all around me, laptop screens lit up frowns of intense concentration. Smells arose of coffee, wine and bread. I drank my unwise but deliberate coffee, for I chose MS Subbulakshmi and Dostoevsky over sleep. Delicious bitter coffee, unknown companions, a caffeine-induced unreal alertness, memories of Fight Club! And MS crooning just for me, Kurai Onrum Illai Kanna...

My seat overlooked the plane's wing. I had borrowed those wings, they were mine for the length of the flight. I scrutinized the paneled wing, those metal sheets flapping mechanically under human control. I wished I had my own wings to flap and flaunt, to fly about as I pleased. But for now, even metal wings will do. Will this fascination with flying (or is it freedom?) ever fade? We entered a wispy cloud, opaque white below me, clear blue skies above. I searched for a crack in the clouds, hoping for a glimpse of the lovely land I left behind. I caught myself hoping and I smiled, so did my ghost in the windowpane. I hoped the roar of the airplane would magically turn into the roar of the wind in my ears. I thought about forty years hence and wondered what I should hope for. Bright kids? A private jet maybe? My own wings? I caught myself hoping again. It's amazing how dependent the human mind is on hope. Success raises hopes of more success in a neverending recursion. We resort to hope to soften the blows dealt by failure. Hope baffles me, cornerstone of ambition at one time, haven for the escapist at another, elusive, chimerical and indefinable, to say the least.

My neighbor serenely knitted. It was something in a lovely pale green melting into rich dark olive. I hoped it was being made for someone with shining hazel eyes. I squinted at my neighbor's beverage. Calories-0. Fat-0. Carb-0. Sugars-0. Protein-0. I smirked at the pointlessness. But then how often should I smirk at my life? I felt the outside of my bag, I traced a fully charged iPod and my books. I never travel without enough books to last me at least a week. I momentarily acknowledged my intense fear of boredom, paranoia if you will. But then it could also be a fundamental distrust of my own mind and of chance acquaintances, even of nature to stimulate my interest for long enough. Life, of course, has proved me wrong too many times. But we elect to just go through our entire lives lugging some of our fears and inhibitions with us. There is not enough incentive to make an effort to lose particularly this one when I can resort to wonderful books and music. Vathapi Ganapathim... MS keeps me special company.

Strapped into safe confinement in submission to tiny illuminated signs, I wrote a story. Can I call words separated by hyphens a story? I wrote it in blue on tissue that blotted. My absent reveries when I paused for thought took the form of live growing inkspots. Inkspots on blotting tissue, begging and teasing for interpretation. The story was really just incomplete thoughts jotted down in a hurry, lest I forget them as quickly as they came. Random thoughts to be fleshed out later in the comfort of my bed. I tried to capture her voice on paper, her brilliant rendition of Bhavayami Gopalabalam and the echoing violin sounding like it was moved to cry by her pious voice. A perfectly bronzed woman, in push-up bra and tiny thong smiled at me from the glossy magazine peeking out of the seat pocket. Sorry, no room for her in my story. We were inside a cloud again. And I felt suspended, motionless thirty-seven thousand feet above land. No frame of reference to gauge the motion. Much like life, I'm tempted to say. I never finish stories, I don't know if I ever can or want to. I didn't promise myself that I will, but I did carefully save those precious tissues. Bhavayami Gopalabalam... I retired to MS at her mellifluous best.