2015 (I lost count)

I want to be a boulder in the sea

Just toward the waters’ edge.

I want to wait patiently till high tide

For the waving messengers of the world

To come crashing down upon my heated surface

And drench me of my vacant mind.

I want to listen quietly to the tales from lands below and afar

And I want to be soaked

In the sea’s tireless endeavours

To pour into the land

That I unfortunately belong to.

A Wallflower, Maybe.

A flash of orange moving about the foyer was all she was to this college. Her smiles settled down on the people as though dusted from a bee’s wings. The woods and the conversations they held painted the thought bubbles that floated over her head as she walked barefoot inside confused socks. She was convinced that her life was created by a wandering mistress who knew not where she belonged. She was put there, upon the petals of a garden that smelled of passion by a dewdrop who compelled her to find answers. 

“What questions do I answer?” she asked, to which the dew replied, “Your own, including that one.”

She rests her head upon her knees and silently observes the land. She sees so much that she cannot leave a moment untouched. Everything is too precious and priorities are impossible to maintain. She keeps a log of everything she feels, hears, smells or sees- completely oblivious to how much she’s missing every time she puts pen to paper. She loves the world and wants it to embrace her- tighter and tighter every year, until one day, it smothers her and claims her as part of itself. 

But she fears the people around her and people as a race. And so she wonders if she should fear herself. She can’t decide whether to live within a giant bubble, buffering her from every distraction or whether to burst it, letting in the slightest beating of wings or pleasant humming- allowing them to saturate her senses, leaving no scope for her to move or assimilate. She wants to learn and read and study- as long as she lives- but she wonders if knowing so much would someday stop her from being fascinated by her surroundings. She wants a life of knowledge and wonder and can’t quite grasp whether they can survive in each other’s arms. 

So she falls asleep each night to the sound of the still air and the smell of her dusty curtains and the touch of her cat’s fur against her chest and surrenders to her dreams which she knows will amaze her more than her own imagination.

Holi Hai, kya?

I hated having to bathe. When I was in school, I would wake up late just so I could skip bathing- and in the evenings, I preferred homework to soap. At times, I would go days without a bath until my mother pushed me into the bathroom and threatened not to leave until she heard the water running. Perhaps I took her too literally. One such day, when it had been so long since I bathed that you could smell me before you saw me, I was pushed into the bathroom. Indignant, I turned the shower on, hummed particularly loudly and waited. I made faces at myself in the mirror, climbed up on the toilet, bathtub, basin and danced around. I mixed facewash and handwash and watched the mixture bubble under the tap- but I refused to stand under the running water. A good 45 minutes later, I decided my bath had lasted long enough. I proudly undressed, wrapped myself up in my towel and turned the water off. I came outside looking particularly victorious and announced, “I’m done, Ma!” She came and took one look at me and hit the roof. There wasn’t the tiniest droplet of dampness on my body and my hair was as bouncy and dusty as it would’ve been had I spent the last week in a sweltering desert. I was never very smart when it came to getting away with things.

 

Strangely enough, for someone who hated bathing as much as I did, I loved Holi. I would count the weeks and months to that one day when ALL my friends would gather in the building with their pichkaris and gulal, ready to plaster each other with colourful insanity. I would wake up from dreams of merriment earlier than any other morning of the year and slip into old clothes and sit at my window waiting for when my friends came downstairs and called out to me. I would run out the door with packets of colour, water balloons and a big bucket with Oliver, my lab, trailing behind me with exited panting. The next few hours would fill the air with our cacophonic laughter, stain the compound with our colourful concoctions and drench us down to our bones until we shivered in the hot sun. It was the most fun we were going to have all year and we were going to squeeze every bit of enjoyment out of it.

When I shifted to a new building, I was afraid I’d lose the magic of Holi, but I found that my new neighbours were just as much fun as my old ones. In fact, the new building came not only with colour- but with food too! I loved Holi so much that I didn’t even mind oiling my hair before playing or washing the colour off afterward. That one bath of the year I looked forward to, for the warm water running down my body uncovered the dry colour and painted my drains- reminding me of all the fun I’d had that day.

Then, I grew up. As did all my friends. I ended up becoming one of those animal-loving, environmentally-conscious, borderline-activists. I began to realise how much water people waste every year. I began to read about strays and cows choking on rubber balloons and plastic. I began to realise how adults drink till their sloshed while they plaster each other and how the innocence of Holi dissolves away, just like the colour from my body. The magic of Holi, was disappearing.

For the last few years, I haven’t known whether to answer the knocks on my door or ignore them. I haven’t known whether I support the one festival that painted my childhood memories or disapprove of it.

My principles lay before me on a platter, wondering whether I’ll keep them to myself or turn them to powder and cover others’ faces with them. This year, a cold kept me home in a blanket- safe from damp and decisions. Next year, once more, I’ll be faced with my heartstrings tugging at my memories and my brain trying hard to reassure me of how my childhood tales will remain safe even if I don’t relive them. Holi has become the day that reminds me of the fact that I’m moving on, growing up and finding a personality. It reminds me of the fact that the opinions I have need to be practiced and cannot remain words on paper or signatures on online petitions.

I always knew I was growing up, but today, I felt old.

2015 #2

The Result Of Another Neuroscience Lecture

"I can't draw very well." he shyly confessed,
As he attempted to draw a mouse, undressed.
He swiped his chalk to make a nose,
I didn't quite see it, were those ears or toes?
With hesitant fingers a mouth beneath,
Was sketched- an unwieldy bed sheet.
He stepped aside to inspect his art,
Those bulges looked like clouds from a fart.
The irony that I found rather satisfactory,
Was we were studying about the system olfactory.
Once more, that brave man balding,
Picked up his chalk to complete his drawing.
A tiny bump he went on to produce,
It resembled the loopy end of a noose.
"This is its ear", he declared,
From stifled laughter my nostrils flared.
I looked at the large structure ahead,
It resembled a coat hanger with many a bend.
I squinted and let out a defeated sigh,
Until he added a giant, round eye!
'Aha! Now I see it!' I'm sure everyone thought,
Through the urge to laugh we collectively fought.
"Now let's draw its nostrils" he went on to say,
Which is when I realized it faced the OTHER way!
It was all finally falling into place,
But I was sure his art class he hadn't aced.

Pet me, O' Traveller

She walked hastily from college, as the sweat trickled down her temples and onto her earphones. She chose fast songs to keep pace with and dodged the afternoon sun as it followed her through every turn.

It had been a frustrating day. Her alarm clock went off too early, her coffee had burned her tongue, she ran out of paper mid-lecture and the chilled ethanol she added to her eppendorff tube refused to unearth DNA. After shoveling a plate of cold paneer and rice from the canteen down her throat, she made her way to the station. She wanted to return to the unkempt bed she was made to leave so soon that morning.

She brushed shoulders with the humanity that flooded the stairs and platform to reach where the ladies' compartment would arrive. As she folded her earphones into her bag and dug for the book she was reading, she saw the crowd to her right part. Through the sea emerged a brown, four-legged, drooling canine. He headed full speed toward her and jumped up onto her. She caught him in her arms and ruffled his short fur. He was panting excitedly and his face seemed to house a giant grin. His tail was wagging in euphoria; he would take off if it swished any faster. She got down on her knees to pet her old friend- the one who wagged at her sight ever since that packet of Parle-G biscuit three years ago.

The train pulled into the station and she gave his back a farewell jiggle. She got on last and looked wearily behind her. He was trying to get on with her. With a heavy heart, she signaled back toward the platform and unwillingly, he listened.

His nose still bobbing up and down as the train left, she waved goodbye with a smile. Somehow, it's always the furry ones who manage to leave one on her lips.

Phone Photography

I never completely understood the craze of cell-phone photography; mostly because all the phones I owned had rather sad excuses for cameras and I was jealous of all those who could take pictures where the blues didn't look like yellows. Recently (owing to the mental demise of my previous phone), I purchased the MotoG-2 which has proved to have an impeccable camera. What started off as a feature-experimentation ended up becoming my obsession whenever I was out. I finally relate to those who talk about the all-encompassing convenience of a good mobile camera. Although I still wish there was a rubber-padded viewfinder I could shove my eye into, my phone has established itself as competent in the field of photography.

I present my experiments.
(And, as it has become important to clarify over all social media, no filters.)

 

 

Travel-time Limericks

There's was a girl from Bombay

Who gave her driver too much leeway.

She then hung onto her skirt

As he zoomed through the dirt

Still she missed her train with dismay.

There were three boys in a train,

Who were just the opposite of vain.

They jumped around harried,

With the bags they carried,

Imagining the dragons they'd slain.

Women around me are hoity,

With serious looks and bras pointy.

They sit upright,

In their lipsticks bright,

Refusing to cooperate flatly.

Ohh the sea of humanity,

Full of clusters of lies and vanity.

They're all potatoes,

Getting bitten by mosquitoes,

And living in a world of insanity.

There lived the King of India,

Who suffered a bout of diarrhoea.

No doctor he consulted,

Could find results that he wanted,

So he just looked it up on Wikipedia.

There was once a pink ballerina,

With bright blue in her retina.

She was perfection,

Down to that complexion,

But my, she laughed like a hyena.

There was a man called Moe,

Who tripped and stubbed his toe.

He jumped and he yelped,

But nobody helped

And he stood there with anger aglow.

There was once a boy from Bombay,

Who played cricket every Sunday.

But bat well he couldn't,

Bowl overarm he wouldn't,

And out he would get anyway.

There was a boy from Kandivali,

A coulple stations before Borivali.

His stomach expanded,

Several metres when counted,

And it was used to perform Kathakali.

There was once a tiny lady,

Who wore an orange saree.

She rushed into my compartment,

Looked around in bewilderment,

Then decided to take an Andheri.

There's no nicer station than Marine Lines,

A bald, blithering bloke opines.

For the vada pav there,

Will pull at your hair,

As the taste around your tongue entwines.

A scrawny man near Mahalaxmi,

Decided to cross tracks carelessly.

He answered a phone call,

As he jumped from platforms tall,

Headed toward death undoubtedly.

The lady sitting besides me,

Is colouring her eyebrows precisely.

As the train keeps moving,

Her lips she starts doing,

And makes no mistake amazingly.

Women carry makeup in their bags,

Probably to avoid time lags,

But when made up women,

Their lipstick endarken,

I just shudder and return to my mags.

There was a college-going bum,

Who hurt herself in ways ultra-dumb.

She hit her right knee,

At station Bandra-E,

And now hobbled crimson and glum.

There was a botanist from France,

Who decided to give India a glance.

He stood amidst the felling,

Then ran away yelling,

And never gave the country another chance.

To catch a rickshaw at Bandra,

Needs perseverance for a mantra.

For with lines this long,

Soon to heaven you'd belong,

Where you can listen to Frank Sinatra.

There was once a juice stall called Yaadgar,

Who's insides were shadier than a bar.

It pulled crowds in aplenty,

With falloda and rose jelly,

And was richer than hotels 5 star.

The sky is full of strange hues,

With no pinks, purples or blues.

Its palette now revised,

With colours improvised,

It's a painting with 7 hidden cues.

2015 #1

Little cubes of simplicity
Is all I ask for innocently
Smooth touches of sweetness
Keeping me calm, un-restless

Find me buried under blankets
Cuddled with socks and jackets
Find me lost in my misty dreams
As I lie awaiting in crispy gleams

And as I reach out and hold you firm
Making sure from my fingers you don't slip or squirm
My neurotransmitters gush madly within
My axons and leave goosebumps on my skin

So soft and moist
I carefully hoist
You and plop you right onto my tongue

And your migrating goodness teases
My linings it gently appeases
As it trickles down- a molten morsel

Yum.