Desert Rose

A tiny tale. The story was getting intense as the page came to an end. And as she was about to turn to the next, a droplet fell on the page. She looked up and smiled at the monsoon . Everything felt light again. She shifted from the terrace to the verandah with her book.

She walked in haze; and content to spend her days simply fighting many ways. The floor on which she treads always creaked; and the rooftop had leaks. Her wings were dragged behind- she couldn’t fly; but her tears, they were so stale and dry.  Now she stands aside from all of it; declining the invitation of acceptance. She is trying, trying hard to forget the closeness of it all; repeating facts to her own mind. One small bleed, somewhere she could sense; and she watches herself falling back into a messed up normalcy. Thoughts and memories and dreams her only companion; and her words, her enemy. Darkness, her enclosure; but she’ll tread till she sees light. Though she’s hazed, she’ll tread.

All that noise. The hassled scenes. So much of dirt and garbage. Unpleasant smell dominating the air. Every face showing different emotions. Every frame giving me ideas of a little tale . Just a whole lot of chaos but that is the world’s largest railway network.  Every time I take a train in India, there is something or someone that gets me thinking. Never the less I always enjoy my dates with the Indian trains. From “this is my seat” arguments, to “may I sit here till the next station” requests. From making acquaintances during long journeys, to being freaked out by drunk locals in a rather empty compartment.  From trying to catch a train that almost started, to jumping out on late  realization  about the destination arrival.  From shifting legs and luggage continuously to escape the cockroaches, to getting used to them moving around.  6 years of living here and travelling around has been much more than just seeing places. A...

She entered her flat after a long tiring day at work. She opened the tap and splashed water on her face. She looked up and the honest mirror showed her a tired and tanned face but there was this little shimmer on her nose. She smiled.

This piece is inspired from certain materials I happened to read over the last few days and thought was worth sharing.  So words are basically codes. They  aren't  things, but representations of things. This key difference between thing and representation allows for certain malleability. Some words can have completely different meanings depending on the context in which they’re used. (A writer doesn’t use “story” the same way an architect does.) In other cases, the representation they’re attached to can shift. This usually occurs over a period of time. For example, the term “awful” apparently began in the 1300s as meaning something “inspiring wonder,” and now means the complete opposite. But now and then, the shift occurs almost immediately. “CHARLIE HEBDO” If you said this phrase before January 7, the person listening would have thought you were referring to the satirical French periodical, if they knew it at all. Say it today, and the phrase is shorthand f...

So my mind likes pondering about almost anything and everything and goes without saying that this was an interesting bit for that purpose. The ‘Kiss of love’ campaign definitely got the attention just as the intention was. I’d received fun messages from my friends around the globe prior to the event as I was the one in the city where the event was to happen. And I also got messages later enquiring if I was fine J (Yes. I was absolutely fine as I couldn’t make it to the event.) In France couples are paid to kiss in public to boost the image of the country as a romantic place. In India, displays of affection trigger such immediate outrage. When people fight in public, or spread violence, there isn’t much happening. Intriguing. Another interesting thought that crossed my muddled mind - Why is it that kissing in public is objectionable and pissing in public is not? Is it because it’s an Indian thing for men to do it in full public view?  There’s no doubt it’s...

As a little girl, I always sat on the bed and watched my mother tying this really long piece of cloth. Certain days she’d call my father to help her with it. I wondered what she did with it that it looked so pretty on her once it was done. And like most girls I tried my luck with towels and duppattas but I never looked like amma. Those were the days I thought that it was sort of difficult and that I might never look like her nor would I want to handle something that seemed so complicated. But of course times changed and my turn came. I know I started admiring sarees from a very young age. Thanks to my mother who dressed up only in beautiful sarees in spite of us being outside India. But for the last few years, it has turned out to be the attire I look out for the most. I must say that my best friend has played a major role in moulding my likes when it comes to fashion.  Since the times of the Indus Valley Civilization, women are common with the style of wearing the 6 yard...