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.