Desert Rose

The dream catcher slowly shifting. The curtain slightly swaying. The night sky all lit yet dark. You are the silent type. Aren’t you? The thoughts in my head. The memories from all around. The dreams in all its glory and power. I am not too silent. Am I? So why don’t you speak too. Or even shout. It just takes a thunder or a storm after all. In that kind of night, you can dissolve my voice. And then maybe we can have a dance.

                                                                JO&LE I know. Beautiful. She seems to be at so much peace. Such calm. While it all seems so, her brain is exploding with questions and her eyes are filled with wonder. And mind you, those are the questions that actually matter. “Where does the sun hide when it goes to bed at night? Where does the moon stay all day long? Why is pink, pink and orange, orange? Why do some men have beard and some have a smooth face?” She mostly wants more – be it the carrot cake on her plate or the stories around the world. She says things as she feels it. She cries when she feels like. She sleeps when she needs to. Here I am. Grown up. So grown up that I am currently reading “The Subtle Art of not giving a Fuck”. That’s the fine line I guess. She giv...

She woke up that day with a smile.   Thank God. Lately days are bright and happy. Yet that day, it was something else. After a minute or two, she realized. The reason.   She was amused because she thought it was all long back ago. She thought she'd forgotten details. Days which once mattered the most.   And here she was, messed up hair and tiny eyes, and the smile. How a tiny bit from the past make us come alive without us realizing. How those pieces we thought were buried deep down or removed from our system find their way back on the days that makes most sense to those memories.   How we see the innumerable happy moments over the few that probably caused the drift. After all she's a wild child with stains.   Sometimes imperfect. Sometimes unclean. But so damn shiny underneath.

The kind of situations we encounter while going up and down. Ah! These elevators will have so many stories to their credit. The earliest memory was when I was about 7 years. Yes, I wasn't too sure of what to do inside an elevator then. So on reaching the floor, my parents and a couple of others on board moved out and the door closed before I could get out. Since someone had already pressed the buttons from the ground floor, the panicked me was on my way down. In the meantime, my dad like every little girl's superhero chased the stairs down. But me on reaching down thought I will stay indoors and go up to find my parents. So I stayed in and told the uncle in the elevator where I wanted to go. Yea my dad missed me again. He then climbed the stairs back to find me coming out of the elevator. The first thing he did was take me back inside and teach me exactly what to do.  #childhoodmemories Then there was this one time after watching a movie. We were headed back...

“Sending letters and cards have been a part of us for as long as I can remember. Texting, social media and phone calls all work out just fine but there's this electric, yet very soothing energy that revolves around the art of writing the same down on paper, digging up an envelope, throwing in som e stamps, lick-sealing it (Kidding, don't go there  #papercut ), seeing that beautiful red box, slipping it in, praying to all the Indian Post Gods ‘thou not leteth them goeth astray', hearing the khakhi attired person ring the cycle bell, see them walk in the gate, 'Sukumaretta, kathundo?' (‘Do I have letter?’), to which he'll nod. Your loved ones would run to the door, wind in their hair and take the letter to find a random LIC letter.”  Quoting Flynn George coz I couldn’t put this any better. Writing letters is fun, therapeutic, and has a much deeper meaning to the recipient than anything else. For that matter my husband proposed to me over a letter and I sai...

You know that feeling? When you’re just waiting. Waiting to get home. Waiting to get into your room. To close the door, to fall on that bed. And to just let everything out that you kept in all day. That feeling of relief and desperation? Nothing is wrong. But nothing is right either. And you’re tired. Tired of everything. Tired of nothing. And you just want someone to be there, to tell you that it is okay. But no one is going to be there and you know that only you can fix you. But you’re tired of waiting. Tired of having to be the one to fix yourself and everyone else. Tired of being strong. And for once you want it to be easy. To be simple. To be helped. To be saved. You know the chances are slim. You’re still hoping, right? You’re still wishing, isn’t it? You’re staying strong and fighting with tears in your eyes. You’re fighting. Keeping fighting. Write yourself a warrior’s tale.

She walked in barefoot into the nature. Something whispering, murmuring, coaxing and invoking. The many trees that turn color in the fall. The sunlight filtering through the treetops making beautiful dappled patterns on the pond. Children all around making happy shrills. Running, playing and being their age. The lone couple under a sprawling banyan and the other couple freezing moments of maternity. The bald man asleep on a bench and another just like that on the grass. A young lady reading ‘God of Small Things’ and the grandpa with his kindle. A bunch of burqa clad women busy picking fallen leaves out of their lunch boxes as they sat in a circle, giggling. And another lot playing ice and water. Babies in their strollers and the puppies strolling around. Roses of every color and shape. Some as big as two palms cupped together. The gulmohar, silver oak, pink Cassia and hundreds of nameless astoundingly beautiful plants. The texture of the ...

Disclaimer : If anything from this post relates to you or offends you, please don't be. You know we're talking about the other parents! This aunt I know. Apparently she was this extremely fun woman who believed in breaking the stereotype norms and go far. She lived independently and did a lot apparently. But now years down the lane, her daughter is not allowed to stay out after 8 pm, not allowed to drive because it is too dangerous and a whole lot of not allowed to do things. Fair enough right? My little niece. Oh she be one adorable doll. So her mom had gotten her morning milk ready in a blue sippy cup. She pushed it away and demanded, “I want the pink sippy cup, not the blue!”. My sister’s face whitens and she rushes to get the preferred sippy cup before the baby throws a tantrum. Fail! What are you afraid of sister? I go out shopping with a family friend. Their little boy loves my company (or at least it feels that way with all the fun we have). We are at the...

It was my turn to move away from home. It was time for me, like they say, to go behind my dreams. And I was sure. My entire world was sure that my father would not deal with it well. I knew he wouldn’t wave goodbye without shedding some tears - joyous and anxious. (Somewhere I was proud of it. Proud of being his girl with whom he cannot stay.) And finally that day arrived for me to fly out and as I walked away, I noticed something was different. He didn’t shed tears and his look told me a thousand things that I couldn’t then perceive. Everyone around including my mother said he had prepared himself well for this change and was strong. But somewhere behind my mind that image remained. Tiny details but the most important things seemed different whenever I went home. He didn’t play his usual doze of morning music which was like an energizer to wake up for us all our life. There were not many evenings where movies were discussed to tiny details. Those evening walks where keeping up w...

The sun has almost set and as I stand in my balcony, I feel the city serenading my favorite songs for me.  As the night sets in, somewhere in a multi-storey building I sing back. Is it my never ending thirst to find new shores that brought me here? Or is it the never ending love from my heart only for you? I stand here taking in the unending long view of shining lights. From this shore of love and lust I look up at the sky longing for it to rain on me. I’m here for you in the beautiful night like a shadow of you. I look around to see this city the way you do before I paint my own picture. Each nook of the city smells like cigarette smoke at this hour. With a pint down their throat, the artists walk through the lanes, to capture life. As the city lives on - everyone is looking for something. I sure am. We are all finding something or making something or maybe just being. And suddenly I know, it is time to start something n...

Pistanthrophobia – Is this word familiar?  Well, I came across this one lately and was surprised to find out that fear of Trusting someone again is such a common reaction to being hurt in love that it has its own name. Thinking of it, what is one of the most crucial commodities for a person that’s becoming increasingly difficult to obtain these days?  Is the possibility of interruption and distraction everywhere taking a toll on most individuals and their relationships? Is it the fact that the juxtaposition of people’s loftiest hopes and aspirations with their deepest worries and fears is too difficult to be brought to a balance?  Is it the fear that if taken lightly, one day it might just become routine? Does this all boil down to the fact that we have forgotten about ourselves? That the other person is after all the secondary character and not primary. I don’t know.  What I believe is - It is good to love, because love is difficult. For one human ...

If you can see her for all that she is, every bad decision wrapped in pretty skin. If you can see her fears trembling in her palms, And long to kiss away the pain they cause. If you can relate to all the moments she roared gracefully, and the ones where she stumbled back to reality. If you can look at her scarred soul, and crave a taste of life she’s been dying in. If she looks like heartbreak wrapped up in a smile, and you’ve never wanted disaster in your life so badly. If like her, for you too, ‘happily ever after’ doesn’t mean a perfectly told story, but falling in love with delicious chaos that is life. If you are the kind who admire the gentle breeze, the baleful wind and the storm alike. Then maybe there’s a chance at a true sort of love where ruins are more beautiful than the flesh above.

She was like ice but still burned like no one ever could. She set herself on fire each night because it was too dark and chilly in the hell she was living. She dreamt of people falling from the sky, plummeting to their deaths. She woke up with disbelief in her eyes but the nightmare continued.  She pumped her veins with things that can poison her blood; but she continued breathing.  She felt her insides rotting and quite unsure of how her heart still kept throbbing. She was like ice but still burned like no one ever could. So she put on her pretty dresses and painted herself in different emotions.  She kept singing aloud as if she knew the right trail.  She kept dancing and swaying as if she knew the right moves. What she knew was that every thorn that caught her at each turn, slicing into her, would just make scratches.  She wouldn’t let a few scratches bleed her dry.   So she kept singing and dancing loud enough while...

Certain creations stand the test of time and still weaves a magic.  I happened to watch ‘Nammukku Parkkan Munthirithoppugal’ on television a few days back. The freshness. The magic. It was all as engaging as it was when I first watched it. Then a few days later I happened to see another master piece. This time while watching it, it hit me that much before Deepa Mehta, there was this legend, Padmarajan. Much before ‘Fire’, there was ‘Deshadanakkili Karayarilla’. Unlike the former where the protagonists probably became lesbians because of their uncaring husbands, Padmarajan made no bones about the fact that his protagonists were probably lesbians. Wasn’t he a genius film maker? I don’t know if this film was a success at the box office. Was it? Then yesterday I happened to watch yet another favourite of mine on telly – ‘Thoovanathumbigal’. It is not always that a cinema becomes immensely intriguing and grows on you each time you watch it – there are probably so many inte...

I thought your heart leaked love;  when did venom turn out to be so intoxicating. So extremely alluring;  yet unexplainably excruciating. It was in your lips; soft yet evil, conquering my soul. It was in your touch; hidden beautifully in that romance. Like a beautiful thing it came; Then a sense of falling and an eventual cease. I am free now.

It was all about order then; But she doesn’t know until when. When did that pull towards love and chaos take over? Or maybe was chaos always the constant? Her world now moved too fast. She missed the shades of each sunset;  She no longer felt her toes kissing the earth beneath. It was no more about order; But chaos. It was like being the moon afraid of the vast sky; but loving the way it held the stars. She yearned for peace from all this mayhem. But she didn’t realise that she invited it; Because she was too wild to feel alive when at peace. To be reckless; To consume. To be wild ; To be her. Chaos was its own kind of beautiful.

They wrote love letters like bed time stories and stacked them.  Those stacks. Reminders to never forget. They swam in a sea of open ended sentences.  Sentences punctuated with her scent. But did she know then, that the gravity of loneliness smelled the same as well. Broke. They rebuilt. Broke again. The 'lost cause' wrapped in 'remember when ' and 'what could have been' ;  all in an 'if only things were different'. And she's lost. Dizzy. Lost on that less traveled road.  He was like a December. Serene. He was the morning cool.  And she no less than a fool for mistaking glass for the openness ;  mistaking the calm for content. To awaken the lost, silent dreams ; wanting to gather hope and spirit ; those stacks found a place elsewhere ;  those bed time stories were put to sleep. Forever. 

So I came across a little something lately that was pretty interesting and I was unaware of. Maybe you already know about it but never the less, worth sharing for those like me :) “Love stories” are often associated – at least in the popular imagination – with fairy tales, adolescent day dreams, Disney movies etc.   Beginning in the early 1970s with the groundbreaking contributions of John Alan Lee, researchers have developed classifications that they believe better characterize our romantic predispositions. The patterns unknowingly expressed by respondents culminated in a taxonomy of six distinct love “styles” that continue to inform research in the area forty years later. The first of these styles – EROS – is closely tied in with images of romantic love that are promulgated in Western popular culture. Characteristic of this style is a passionate emotional intensity, a strong physical magnetism – as if the two partners were literally being “p...