The Bed

Exhausted, frustrated and aching, she walked away from the chattering in the kitchen and into her grandmother's bedroom. It was dimly lit by the gentle evening light, filtering in through the curtains. The air stood still, as though it hadn't been disturbed in years. This quaint room, its green walls looking pale in the fading light, looked sad and worn. Yet, she felt at home there, comfortable in the stillness and quiet. She shuffled over to the single bed in the far corner of the room. Her favourite bed, standing on four wooden legs with a thin foam mattress on top. She could feel her back sinking into the foam even as she approached it.

Gingerly, she sat down, pushing aside the freshly hung laundry before lying down across pillows and folded blankets. She lay flat on her back, looking up into the canopy of damp saris and dhotis. A dusty breeze blew in through the mosquito nets and hit the overhanging clothes, making the air around her cool and moist. She could smell detergent and dust.

The light began to die and the room looked darker and calmer. The breeze moved the saris, tickling her ankles and nose. She lay there in the dark, hidden completely in her damp tent, as the voices around her began to fade further and further into the distance. She closed her eyes nimbly into soft slumber, listening to the bats beginning to wake.

Walking through a lens

A long, lazy stroll with a friend along Marine Drive (on a morning when a 3-hour long practical class was blissfully cancelled) finally gave me the opportunity to take some photographs. It had been far too long since I slung the 'ol camera around my neck, lens cap in my pocket, as I roamed aimlessly. These photographs made me happy.

When I walk around or spend time with someone, many little things happen. Tickling conversations are had, jokes are cracked, songs are sung, food is eaten and joy is shared. But, at times, these little things slip out of my mind even before I realize how special each one of those moments were. Looking back at these photos, I'm reminded of those fine details and I feel a smile grow on my lips.

 

A comment from the blog that JUST HAD TO BE PUBLISHED

A person called "Bum"left the following poem as a comment on an old post- Harm No Living Thing .
Even though the original poem was written by Christina Rosetti, I like the one in the comment better. Such spontaneous brilliance must be shared:

Harm no living thing,
Not the bird, the bee nor the snake,
Nor the kangaroo hopping with a spring,
Nor the fish that swims in the lake,
Nor creatures hiding, away from your eye,
Nor the fly, hovering over your feast,
Nor the moth, the sloth or butterly,
Nor boastful man, nor humble beast.

-Bum

Railway Tracks

Standing at the door of a train, I can never resist looking down at the tracks running parallel. I can never resist that fluid trance. As the train passes by, the tracks pick up pace. They begin to glide alongside, causing the ground around it to turn to a smooth blur. They seem like they're racing with the train, or trying to talk to it. Are they chasing after the train? As they sit there on their rusted iron clamps, they wait. Wait to be run over. Wait to be polished by the grooves of a train's wheels.

Isn't it a wonder how something so static, so motionless, transports us and makes us move? It's the monotonous continuity of the tracks that pushes us toward change and excitement. It makes me realize that there can't be change without a firm foundation- without some amount of routine or repetition. Not everything in life can be indefinite. We all need a constant, a fixed point to grow from. But grow from there we must.

You have Zonked and so shall I

You have zonked and so shall I,
A non-committed way to die.
Away from this world and into the next,
Where reality will far from object.
A land where trees are pink and roses green,
Where birds laugh and elephants preen.
Where a rustling wind blows through my hair,
And a queer lady at me does stare.
Where mountains seem to grow beneath,
The earth's crust amidst all its heat.
Where I'm at peace to sing and dance,
Talk, love, frolic and prance.
You have zonked and now so shall I,
Oh, this non-committed way to die.

Slumber

I love you tender, oh sweet, caring slumber
You wrap me in your arms
And transport me without qualms
To beauty, calm and quiet
Away from every racket
I fall in love with you every night
Fight to be with you with all my might
I long to stay buried deep within you
Why do you loosen your grip on me?
The warmth of your breath
That state of near death
You comfort me
I can feel the brush of your supple feathers against my cold cheek
I can feel your dense fur pressed against my body
I surrender to you, I can't help myself
In your layered blankets in the cold
I am yours, forever more.

Soob

There was a young lad named Soob,
Who suddenly grew a large boob.
It grew from his chest.
And annoyed him like a pest,
For over his stomach it would droop.

I'm sitting here with my laptop simply because I want to write. I haven't a topic or idea. But I feel overcome with emotions of every kind. It's hard to pinpoint reasons for them. It could be the plate of paani puri I relished earlier in the evening, or the last few episodes of M*A*S*H I just watched, or my dinner of nutella and banana on toast,or a beautiful movie I watched, or Society that I'm listening to, or loved ones I miss dearly. It's hard to figure whether I'm jovial or solemn. It's an in-between-ness that I find hard to comprehend. Yet, somehow, I feel calm and at peace. A feeling that everything will be all right. That, in turn, makes me wonder if everything is all right presently. When I inspect my surroundings, I realize there's a lot to clear up. (Speaking not just metaphorically.) Isn't life best when uncluttered? I sure think so.

While I was watching MASH earlier, I thought of how wonderful the concept of colour is. The physical phenomena of substances having the ability to reflect every kind of colour but one and the biological phenomena that allows us and other living beings to observe and appreciate them is nothing short of miraculous. We take the magic of colour for granted. Its ability to set a mood, to add meaning to our mundane existence, to define everything it touches, to help us identify ourselves. But over and above all these wonderful things about colour is its best asset- its versatility. Its unparalleled variety that breaks monotony of every kind. I've never met a mood that couldn't be fixed by walking into a room filled with colour. But, again, I speak part metaphorically. People can be colourful. And being associated with colourful people can do for you even more than what literal colour can. Colourful experiences and conversations are what build the treasury of life's memories and paint your dreams and mind.

I'll stop here. Goodnight, minions. Oh how I wish I had some. Little yellow blobs of cuteness bobbing around the house. Better therapy than colour, perhaps.
TaTa For Now.