Tuesday, December 28, 2010

A Vintage Musing

The light from the lantern was pale and dull. Barely enough to hit the cracked walls. It outlined the face of the rustic lectern, fenced with bundles of string tied parchments. The windows were sealed with vintage flows. But for the lamp, it was distictly dark. The room is small, the walls close in. A perfect place for solitary writing.

 I am often visited by vintage musings, it's a wish to live out of a classic novel. To witness the existence of bygone years. When thoughts were simple, quiet and subtle. When there was time to cull the garden blossom and heed to the world of mystic silence.

I want to write long letters, on brown, stained parchments. Wear satin gowns and walk by the lakeside. I feel like I've been misplaced in future and I know this is an imprudent wish. A wish for a day when I'll don those wings, and fly my way to the '60s.

I see that day, of solitary writing, thoughtfully dipping a quill in the inkwell.



linked
 

Monday, December 27, 2010

Like a Clownfish

It has become an imperative elixir. An often used apparatus to conciliate, that allows a cheerful bid to decamp. An effortless escape to a world, as real as I can imagine it to be, a world that I will never want to jump out of. Because that is where the heaven is, that is where the bliss is.

So I will dive into that ocean like a clownfish. I will wriggle on the tips of the anemone , and feel the warm rays that cleave through the water bed. Because that's what I want to be, today. To be small, invisible and painted bright orange.

I find a strange sense of ecstasy in such deviant fantasies. Somehow I want it to remain my ' fantasy '. What if I really were a clownfish? I guess I wouldn't know the difference then. Or maybe my dreams would change.

It's just a simple revelation, that there is always a place elsewhere, to let go, to get away. I leer at all the creations around me, that inspire to dream this written fantasy, to imagine a life that isn't mine.

This is a beautiful world. It's a beautiful dream.



courtesy
 

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Memories of an orange

There was a faint sound in the distance. I stared into the darkness ahead, a hollow black cave. The pounding was getting louder now and somehow the darkness made it worse. It filled my head, the vibration, the sound.

I opened my eyes again. It was dark and cold. My head felt heavy as I got up from the bed. It was the flu, yet again, a regular winter bane. And nothing was more seemly than a hot pepper rasam cure, another one of those grandmother specials.

There's a lot going on when there are geriatrics at home. It isn't just the novelty, but the classic lifestyle, strictly living by the rulebook. They've seen it then, they see it now, and what a preposterous change. Conceptions maybe paradoxical, but there is still a curiosity. Ethics maybe complicated, but it makes all the difference.

Everything now will be a memory later, a memory of them, a memory with them. Sixty years later, I will still remember today, when I ate an orange with my grandmother, when I smelled the fresh fruit, and when I freaked to find a white worm in it.


Thursday, November 25, 2010

In the eye



" The first time he saw Seabiscuit, the colt was walking
through the fog at five in the morning.
Smith would say later that the horse looked
right through him.
As if to say,
 "What the hell are you looking at? Who do you think you are?"
He was a small horse, barely fifteen
hands. He was hurting too. There was a limp in
 his walk,a wheezing when he
breathed. Smith didn't pay attention to that.
He was looking the horse in the eye. "

          - Seabiscuit

The passing cloud

He swirled a wand in the big silver box that stood on four swivel castors. The fork at the wheels were rusty and brown. He pulled out the magic wand, with a pink cloud at the tip. He gave it to me and dad payed him. The cart groaned as he pushed it again, through the  medley crowd. My dad held my hand and walked towards a nearby stall, and I strolled along, savoring the sticky, sweet cotton candy.

Maya bazaar. I still remember the name. It was my favorite part of the weekend, every month. And I loved it only because of the "pink cloud"; the stalls and the crowd made no sense to me.

I inhaled the scent of ceramic clay. The pot was small, the size of my palm. But there were more, lined on the floor, bigger ones like those I saw in the bazaar, some ten years back. It was an excuse, walking in these stalls; an excuse to return to early days of life. It's like a drug that abates the suffocation inside, a belief to re-live memories, a sweet emotional lie. It's a feeling that wretchedly fails to instigate in an air-conditioned mall with furbished floors.

Traditional artisans selling handmade articrafts. They still remain the face of creativity and once in a while remind the forgotton folklores weaved around mud pots and bamboo carvings . It's like a typewriter that we now marvel at, these are travelling the roads to the antique shop.




Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Hatched

Another hush winter morning, early and dark. Fingers hugged the warmth of the porcelain mug. After a moment's pause, I turned the page, and scrawled again. A slight stir under the chair, across the room. She was restless, my dog. There was a whiff in the air, strangely familiar. She sniffed again, took a deep breath, and fell asleep.

I got back to gazing at the white in front of me. The scribbles got blurred. The mind travelled away, to a lighter side of life. Where wishes come true and the world's colored brighter. The spirit rides high in elation, it's like an escape to eternity.

I opened my eyes to the sound of wings. I saw my dog peering through the window, upright on two legs. She loves the birds, probably a fascination to fly. My legs felt stiff, it's been a while on that chair. I walked to the kitchen and placed the empty mug. The void air carried the scent of morning breakfast. I walked around, flexed my legs. And there she was, still peering out.

I walked to her, and peeped out. I held my breath. There was a lump on the window ledge. It was pink and small. There were two squabs, cuddled together. The front pointed and black, a slow movement in the middle. It was breathing. The eggs have hatched, finally.

The next few minutes witnessed many more heads gaping over the nest. Humans can be naively funny, such events bring about really wierd remarks.

"Wow..It's a miracle"

"It's breathing"

"Oh, see there's the beak."

"...and the wing, it's so tiny."

Juniors, welcome to the world.




Monday, November 22, 2010

Mellowing down in sweetness

It was more of a delightful desire that easily glided to the summit of a monstrous sweet craving mountain. An enticing sight of snow white pixie dust ( a non craver would relevantly call it glucose); I think it started with that.

It's ludicrous, really; to just walk towards something, when you claim to be in exile, cull out the stuff to as diminitive quatity as you can restrict yourself to consume, yet come back again, and many times after, to do the same.

It's more of a written procedure.To become easeful with yourself in the following days until the moment of realization strikes. You are no longer at the summit but at the peak, with arms open wide, proclaiming with a "Lion King" phonetic, " I'm on top of the world". Well, you probably don't feel that way, cause that head above your neck feels heavy and giddy, indicating that the consumption of sweet(ness) must stop.

Sometimes you just have to walk downhill, this is definitely not the mountain (or hill, in this case) to climb. So with much of the mustering of courage etc., etc., you face the barricades up front and hopefully end up revamped and normal.

Now that you are back to the place you 'should' belong, you are stripped off the "sweetness syndrome" label. Life's devoid of the calorie accumulating fear. There's a relief, you feel the lightness of a tip-toeing ballerina.

And then, on a bright new morning, with sunlight dashing through the glass panes of the kitchen window, the autumn air coils you up and, like a feather, you slide through the doors across the hallway and there you are, staring at a mass at the centre of the table.

It has got that sparkle, like a new shiny toy. Maybe the grounds of heaven just gave in and it fell through.

"It's specially for you. Your favourite, remember?", comes a voice from the kitchen, or heaven perhaps?

Life goes on !

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Over the hill

Somedays are meant to be indolent. A late morning coffee in one hand ( especially choosing a mild silver mug to go with the mood) to quitely slip into a well-cushioned recliner  and let the mind go void for the rest of the day.  To listlessly witness in that cozy dwelling, the sights that might have been missed out on an otherwise hustling life.

And sometimes the daily affairs surprisingly kindle the moment's attention. Time doesn't stop. Talking doesn't stop. A serious conversation between the two, with a pitch of emotional intensity. And the voice slowly raises, but still remains feeble. The conversation is diluted with the sound of water splashing over the vessels in the kitchen sink. But why, it's almost as real as listening to peasants on a meadow.

And she goes on, tale after tale, a tone of dislike, a tint of delight, like a song along the words. The talking stops when the washing stops, but she's still intent, now running the voices in her mind, while drying the vessels.

The mind glides home now. The grandaughter needs a bath. Dinner has to be cooked. There might be visitors in the evening. They will need special sweets and savouries.

The loud voices diminish. The work is done and it's time to leave. But tomorrow is another day, with a mind full of new events to talk over the kitchen sink. The greys of her hair had glints of silver. She comes back each day, walking all the way, and from here back home. With puffed eyes, she stiffly walks to the door. She hardly sleeps at night. The floor is hard. The winter is harsh. But she's happy. She hugs onto the new blanket. She'll give it to her daughter.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

"Making it count"




" I got everything I need right here with me. I got air in
 my lungs, a few blank
sheets of paper. I mean, I love waking up in the morning not
knowing what's gonna happen or,
who I'm gonna meet, where I'm gonna wind up.
 Just the other night I was sleeping under a bridge and now
 here I am on the grandest ship in the world having
champagne with you fine people. I figure life's a gift and
I don't intend on wasting it.
You don't know what hand you're gonna get dealt next.
You learn to take life as it comes at you...
to make each day count. "

- Titanic

Saturday, November 13, 2010

Book review - THE LAST CHILD by John Hart


If you are looking for a light evening read when you are leisurely lying on a very comfortable bed, holding a book under a dim-lit lamp, then this is not your choice. It's an "on-the-edge-of-the-seat", "heartbeat-racing" thriller that might totally go against that setting.

This is one of those extremely rare books that can literally steal your mind away to a different world; show you the insights of the depth of emotion entangled in a completely arduous life.

Simply said, this is'nt a simple story. Complexity in terms of detail; every bit of it plays an immense role in adding that final touch of significance. The book is tagged with words like "rare", "sensational", "intriguing" and "deep".

A well-knitted sequence of events  that structures the entire plot beautifully, it deserves atleast a single read.

The story revolves around Johnny Merrimon, who sets out to look for his missing twin sister. It takes a 13-year old like him to keep up the faith(even after a year since the abduction) on finding Alyssa Merimmon, when everybody else, including the police have given up. The way he handles the events henceforth, his fragile mother and yet another abduction of a classmate advances the climax to the end. Characters like Detective Clyde Hunt, the only person who looks out for and believes in Johnny , and Levi Freemantle melt the heart furthermore.

A book that pays all its dues to be certified a "gripping thriller".

Friday, November 12, 2010

Kiki's corner

Okay. So as I promised (here) a continuation of my second dog's story, here's an introduction.

One of the most important part of Kiki's life is what you see below - her "chew stuff". Her property occupies this tiny little corner of our home - aptly called Kiki's corner ( I should probably start a restaurant with that name!).



Item #1 :  A clean towel that is now more genuinely called a floor mop look-alike. 


Item #2 : A perfectly round ball with a smashed head


Item #3 : Another perfectly out of shape ball.


Item #4 : An orange taxi, a blue car, a plane with no wings and tail and a half eaten train


Item #5 : Yet another set of balls that look like hatched eggs


Item #6 : Whatever you call this .


among many others.

More to come..

Friday, November 5, 2010

Diwali from the roof top





A nest and two eggs

This is more of a continuation of the previous post. Got up this morning to find a new (pigeon) family nesting right on the window ledge of my living room.

So at a time when the mother was not warming her egg, I quickly snapped a pic,




while it constanly had an eye on the nest and the yet-to-be-born kid in it. 



Realising that it didn't approve of me snapping shots like that, I finally refrained from taking pictures. An hour later I peeped into the nest again ( I barely get to see birds nesting in a building, so it's okay to do that occassionally, right?) and find an extra egg.





Waiting for it to hatch.

Friday, October 29, 2010

Pics of the week - pigeons

They're everywhere around the appartment.


These here, as viewed from my balcony.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Street art

So you walk down the road one fine morning, and at some point you find yourself approaching a huge, really deep concrete hole, that looks more like a well dug man-hole; and worse, you see two people, their hands desperately reaching out to you, sucked right into it.



Or maybe, another day, when you walk down the street, you suddenly find a huge coke bottle rolling towards you. And you are not having these nightmares in the middle of the night, with an owl hooting in the background. What do you do?



Look again. These are some insane 3D paintings on the pavements. The paintings above, are the works of Julian Beever, a chalk artist. He uses the concept of anamorphosis to bring such 3D effects.

One other street artist is Edgar Mueller. Paintings like the Lava burst(below), was done in 5 days, working 12 hours a day and his world record painting, the Ice Age covered nearly 330 square meters in Westfield, London.





For the love of anything "art", this cannot be missed.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Nature talk

This has been long due. But it kind of came up while I was browsing, so here it is. I've always admired these.

Venus flytrap

The carnivorous plant that eats and digests insects. The trapping mechanism is really brilliant; the leaf ( picture below) closes if the prey comes in contact with a hair; and another hair within 20 seconds. This time period until the second contact,  is to avoid unnecessary closing of the leaf, thus avoiding trapping with no nutritional value. More here .



Rafflesia

The world's largest flower, it weighs 11 kgs(approx). The plant has no stem, leaf or roots. The flowers look and smell like rotting flesh, hence the local name, corpse flower or meat flower.





from inside
Wolffia

The smallest flowering plants on Earth, it weighs as much as two grains of salt. These are aquatic.



Friday, October 22, 2010

Self taught moral



 If you ever get your hands on ferrero, stop taking pictures, and just eat.

The real moral :

 Tour the sweet factory when the gates are open, 'cause you never know when they will shut on you.

Be.

Every once in a while comes by something that gets you profoundly intrigued. And by large, it creates that rare occassion to become selfless, yet inspired. Only, the nature of person that you are and what aspects of life, to you, really count, are the true essence of how often it happens.

Each of us in this world's stage is a story. Exquisite stories of the same genre, life. While it will easily take beyond our lifetime to read each story, there are a few that time holds back to narrate, while we write our own. And then there are those, so much more than just a "story", that 'influence' ours.

What really makes it so special is that added fragrance of innocence brought together with a moral, or simply, a realization.

And most of us only tend to learn from such true stories, because as the human race claims, we only let influence that which has proof of existence.

There are times when we look out for such intriguing life(stories) , not because it just earned itself a billion dollars; but because it is simple yet deep.

So stories or the likes of Kevin Skinner,


 are not just incredulous. The message is clear. It might be a conundrum, this life. But it's not really arduous to just be.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Last Week- update

1. Trying out some really "fast" sketching. And some first time comic sketches. 




2. Learnt some new words :
             - messerschmitt
             - shiesty
             - herpe
             - picket
             - recluse
             - haiku
             - expat

3. Dad brings home a net book. Compact, light-weight, lower clarity compared to laptop, nice thing to carry around.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Now

From my balcony, staring at a sunny day...


with Kiki.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Sweet tooth





Posted on behalf of the irresistable, compulsive sweet tooth of mine. And there might be a probability that these candies will just pop out of the blog and into my mouth!

Past work

Been lazy to write lately, so I've decided to bring in some of my "works" from the past.

Not only am I an insipid blogger, I also sketch...some here, some there.




Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Heart of life : #2

The Ship in the Backyard.

It was a bright sunny morning, contrary to the cloudy weather forecast Maggie just read on The Daily newspaper.

“ That’s one worry off the head. It wouldn’t be that hard a drive to our new home, now”, her husband said.

With all the packing and shifting, all that Maggie wanted was to get over with this whole thing.

“The Dirkins are visiting us for a final goodbye”, he continued, frantically dialing some last minute calls.

Maggie’s eyes turned moist, blurring her sight as she buttered her toast. They’ve been neighbors ever since Maggie got married to Phil, eight and a half years to be exact. It’s not easy to separate from such wonderful people. Sometimes she wished they hadn’t decided to shift, so far down south.

Two toasts popped up the toaster, bringing her back to reality.

“Rikie, come have your breakfast.”

Maggie ran to the bedroom to answer her buzzing cell , taking a bite of her buttered toast.

“Phil, could you please help me with this? And put the rest of the suitcases in the car.”

“And where the hell is Rik? Could you find him? We need to leave in an hour.”

Maggie turned and walked past the cluttered things to be packed.

“Mark called.”, she called out.” He ‘s sending that folder you asked him”.

“Phil?”

“I heard you”, he yelled back.

Just then the doorbell rang. Maggie hugged Mrs Dirkins and welcomed her husband and son to the living room.

And thus minutes went by with calls and packing and yelling and neighbors.

“Phil, did you find Rik?”

“No, why don’t you check his room. I’m held up now.”

Maggie did not find her five year old son in his room. She couldn’t find him anywhere in the house.

“Rik? Where are you? It’s getting late.”

“I heard him in the backyard talking to someone”, Mrs Dirkins said.”He’s probably with  my son”.

Maggie found him there, still yapping, as she had said. She walked to him. But where is Ted Dirkins?

“Rik? Who are you talking to?”

“Nobody.”

“Did Ted come by?”

“No”.

“Okay, now why don’t you get back in there and eat your toast. Time to get dressed.”

Rik stood up, glanced at the bushes beyond him, and walked to the back door, holding his mother’s hand.

Maggie turned back and looked around.

Was he talking to himself?, she thought.

******

Rikie looked through his binoculors. His ship has not yet returned . Rik couldn't be a part of this expedition as he had to look after the treasure they retrieved the previous day. So, he decided that, his assistant, Pirate Bug would captain The Rik today.

He sat down and started summing the gold and money from the Rikie Island. He counted 5000 coins, and thrice the amount of 100 dollar notes. He stuffed them all into the back pocket of his pants.

Just then he caught sight of a ship sailing towards him. He could make out Pirate Bug standing at the wheel, steering the ship.

Rikie began his first "voyage" when he was four. His father took him to a harbour, some thirty kilometers away, on a Sunday morning. It was the first time Rikie saw a real ship. And the first time he learnt the meaning of words like 'captain', 'harbour', even 'pirate'.

"I want to be Captain when I grow up", he told his dad, after much thought,on their way back home.
From then on, he has been spending all his playtime at the backyard of their house, to play what he calls "Captain Rik's Ship game".

And thus became his imaginary world with a ship named The Rik(a toy boat that harboured itself under the shade of the orange tree when not on a 'voyage'), the Rikie Island( an imaginary island he conquered and named after him), his assistant 'Pirate Bug'(a black bug that Rik managed to tie onto his toy ship), and the treasure( of round stones, twigs and leaves that took the role of gold and 100 dollar notes).

Pirate Bug anchored the ship and came to him.

"You're late."

'We had issues Captain. We were attacked. Fought them all though.It's all in the ship captain."

"Good work.I can't take it all with me. Bring them when you sail to our new harbour. "

"Can we join you, Captain?"

"No. If you're seen again, you might be dead. You remember what happened last time, don't you?"

Maggie happened to find her son's toy in the backyard one day.  She nearly freaked out when she found a pair of bugs tied onto it. She had strictly forbidden any kinds of such behavior from him, thereafter.

"Yes Captain Rik, I remember".

"There are things we need to talk about. There's a new Island up there, I heard. No time to say much.We''ll meet again tomorrow."

Just then he saw a shadow in front of him.

"Rik? Who are you talking to?”

“Nobody.”

“Did Ted come by?”

“No”.

“Okay, now why don’t you get back in there and eat your toast. Time to get dressed.”

Rik stood up, looked at Pirate Bug sail away, and walked to the back door, holding his mother’s hand.

******

Saturday, October 2, 2010

I learnt that..



It's never easy to draw with a mouse.

Yet if you're one among those who have no other job, you still continue doing such uninteresting, difficult pass-timers that lead you to look like this.


Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Heaven(ly)

 I've got this crazy habit to google countryside homes. And sometimes, feel-good places like these,  are just irresistable and welcoming to look at.