Desert Rose

“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.

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...

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...

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...

All that turbulent past ; to times moving way too fast. All that bow and arrow ; that made it right at my heart. All the wrongs and mistakes ; that saw immense growing up. All those trials that seemed right ; which turned out what I call my life now. All those moments of clarity ; which was just a mere weak illusion. All those questions with no answers ; but just my endless and tired gaze. All that waiting for greater purpose ; which is more about whether I care to hang around. All that turbulent past ; to times moving way too fast.

If you must act like an impertinent man ;  Just because my clear sky  now looks grey ; And thunderstorms y ou cannot bear the sound of ; Please continue. Only remember that even today, I'd say cheers with you knowing my mug has poison. I would gladly drink it   for old times’ sake .

I preferred treading slowly. Dragging my steps. Contemplating every move and watching out for everything around.  But well... I feel I was not making the best choice. Run! That is always better. At least it feels that way to me lately. Run so fast that the air feels like feathers against your skin. Run till the sun sets, turning the hazy pink dusk into a dark canopy with stars. Run till all the noises blend into a symphony. Run through crowded streets and empty lanes. Run when it is raining and feel the water bouncing off your skin.  Run till tears stream down your cheeks and mixes with your sweat.  Run your own path.  Just Run.

I sat alone, apart from my own twin that we all carry in our heads; alone in the corner being able to observe everyone in the cafe.  Wooden floor boards & wall panels with simply deep quotations & abstract framed art work.  Too much of calm inside that compensates for all the rush outside.  I sat in my corner, reading over tea & waiting for my cake. Other guests came in, sometimes alone & sometimes not ; some of them knew each other while some did not. I tried to make friendly eye contact so I could initiate a smile that might start a ‘good evening to you’ or a ‘hello’. Mostly their eyes would avoid mine while they sorted out where they were going to sit & what they were going to order & of course replying to texts in between all this. Now they had no reason to say ‘good evening’ because to say it then would have been out of place, the meeting having already occurred some minutes earlier. So, no gestures or smiles of acknowledgeme...

One person. One mind. One soul. One heart. But her many faces. Can you tell them apart? Face of an angel - strong and wise. But hey, look closer! Can you see the devil in those eyes? In the morning she wakes up and looks in the mirror and ask herself, “Which face shall I wear today?” For she has many. An illusion often mistaken for confusion. Yet still thru each trial, she holds her head up and smiles.  All the faces longing for embraces.  Now open your eyes and look. Can you see at all?

"Transaction successful" - This appeared on the screen and there, for the first time she paid more than usual on a perfume. Shipment arrived.  The fragrance was noticed and liked by most around her. But she realized that it will take more than a costly perfume to overpower the aroma she tried to get rid of.  It will always be in the air.

The 'she' in me met the 'her' in me. Meeting of these two images was a game with serious risks. Or maybe, a divine performance.  Both filled with divine energies & when the meeting was not carried out with due reverence, one destroyed the other.

The same reasons. The same arguments.  Raised voices and then Sighs.  He leaves the room. She stayed where she was for a few minutes, and then took a deep breath and wade into their bedroom. When she got into bed, he turns to her and wraps his arms around and buries his face in her neck, and at the same time they both say, “I love you.” In his arms, she slept. Sound sleep.

An encounter : An 8th standard girl who is expected to be all smiles and happy during her evening play hours caught my attention as she wasn’t doing the expected. She sat in a corner, fiddling with something and stared. Something about her disturbed me and I managed to befriend her. One day as I stood up to leave, she told me that her mother was strict and had no time to listen to her. And I smiled and assured her that I would listen whenever she needed. As I walked away, I said a prayer that let her not have anything that I fret to tell me. The very next day, as usual, after my work, I caught up with her. It was always more of a monologue. I kept talking about various things and she continued staring with occasional glances. That day when I stood up to say bye, she held my hand and said “I don’t like my father.” My heart sank because I dreaded something of this sort coming up. I held her close and the story she told me, I’d like to keep to myself. She is taken care of today. Oh,...

Situation: Guy almost 30. Matrimonial websites. Photographs *woot*. Details *deciphering the good family*. Call. Meet. Say “yes” over tea, coffee, snacks or whatever. Then go back home and complain about the taste of things served there before going ahead with the wedding preparations. (Oh and the best part, every tom, dick and harry has the right to judge the girl by her looks and the family by the salt or masala in the food served!) We all know what I’m writing about. Yes. One thing that has always been held high by India like a shining trophy – the institution of marriage and customs that believe in tethering two people together for life.  Alert: This is not the usual – Which is better? Arranged or love. No that’s not the point. The Biting Wit If you have a daughter and a son, you expect your daughter to be given all the freedom as far as career, fashion, lifestyle etc. are concerned but you want your son to bring home someone who will take care of the ...