The bigger world seems so beautiful when you go out there after a long time.

 

Fresh air in the park. The old woman sitting under the tree was looking for something, fumbling embarassedly in the half dark shadows of the leaves. She wore round spectacles and looked up everytime a walker passed her by.

The old man in the monkey cap wore round spectacles too. He walked almost, fast. Looked healthy and self engrossed. I crossed him and he smiled! He actually did.

The other two young aunties with rotund bellies tried walking briskly, talking about 'Mrs. So and So' and what each of them had cooked for dinner. I know this is what they were talking about because I was trying to overtake them but couldn't! They hogged the whole pathway.

Two little kids walked in front of their mother who looked terribly bored. The kids, one girl and one boy talked about some other kids at school. I crossed them when I finally overtook the aunties.

The guy in the navy sweater walked in the air, his belly followed without missing a cue. They walked in tandem.

The couple walking in front of me for a while, softly spoke about another couple. When they realised someone was nearing them, they spoke even more softly, making me want to eavesdrop.

 

I got home from the park and there were some celebrations going on in the lawns. I asked the guard about it. He was sipping chai. Looked at me and said, 'Oh this is 501's mummy budday'. (It is the birthday of the lady who lives in apartment number 501)

 

Har har har har!!

Even 'nothing' is something...

you boy there

sitting on your phantom chair

(yes this verse is going to be silly

i'm a tired, jaded filly)

 

get up and look around!

there are other sounds

besides that of your voice

in your head or otherwise.

 

look!

there (pointing suddenly to the left and then to the right)

look what a beautiful sight!

 

there are other people too

who deserve much more attention than you.

stop being so(let me think of the right word), Whiny!

stop crying hoarse

over something that cannot be forced

 

you are good

you are skilled

you have a nice heart

but still,

you've been self obsessed lately

just look around

under that flyover there

see that old man?

winters are at the door,

he hasn't got a shawl yet.

look at that little girl outside your office

she serves you tea

and her mother, rupees.

look at  your roomie

he means well.

don't lambaste everything

in close vicinity

you'll hurt yourself and others

anywhere in close proximity

 

this verse is lame

i know

but it says what i wanted to say,

so,

it isn't that lame, really

 

i'm just tired tired filly.

 

(i've resigned to all lower case for this, i'm really a tired filly...smiles foolishly at the silly verse)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I'm wondering if it's time for some more Neruda again. The only problem with that is, his poems are rather long, atleast for right now, they're too long for me to sit and type them out. Perhaps I should just scan in the odes to a cat and dog that I'd typed out on my typewriter a long time ago, and illustrated too. Rummaging for those will also be tedious. I would never think of copy pasting his poems, for, when I type them out, I also get to read them, word by word. Sometimes I stop at a couple of them for some time. It's like a siesta. Sometimes I stare at two sentences for really long. It's like a lazy walk on the promenade, in the late winter afternoon.

Perhaps, I will look through my old sketch/note books and see if I've got else written by Neruda, that I could post here.

For now, I also wonder why he never wrote an ode to so many other things, for instance, he never wrote an ode to a balcony. I hope to write it one day. I hope to write it, because I have understood the dimensions and smells of a balcony, over thse last few months. I know how a balcony breathes.

 

Winter's just round the corner. Ever year, the smooth change in attire completely baffles me. So this year, I decided to keep check and write down the date when I first saw someone wearing a woollen. I know it's banal, but I keep my own goosewilly records, nevertheless.

 

It seems to be the season for people to get married. Some of my close friends are getting married very soon and some already have. I wish them all joy and hope to make each of them a painting. Which does in no way imply, that I think no end of what I produce and pass away as art, it only implies that a painting is all I can give if I must give something I've made myself.

Phew!!

I think I should've just typed out an ode instead....

Look...no frowns!

No furrowing brows too. 

A little further down, the smile has slipped away and if you look a little closely you’ll see something else has slipped away too. 

You made her see and explore a whole new world. You introduced her formally to software she dreaded to trudge upon, hitherto.

 And in turn, you said she'd brought you home to the world of art. 

She was snug, her smile showed it all. And on cold cold days when her mouth was hidden under warm babushkas, you could see her happiness in her eyes.

 

She had her beliefs, oh yes she did. She thought it was important to say sorry when someone erred and hurt another. Sorrys were easy for her to say because she felt them from within and had no qualms in saying them.

People err all the time. You walk down to buy vegetables and someone steps on your toe. Sorry. It’s okay. Walk on. No more bother. Chapter closed. You go to the bookstore and ask for the new Kundera. It hasn’t yet arrived. Sorry. It’s okay. I’ll look elsewhere or just come back later. Walk on. You make yourself a cup of coffee and add too much milk, much more than you like in your coffee. No need for sorry. You’ve done it yourself and you can drink extra sweet coffee. No fret. Walk on. Out in the street one morning, she was walking home from the cycle repair guy, after getting her cycle fixed. She crossed the road and saw three children gathered around something on the tip of the road. She walked closer and looked. It was a gecko, the dark grimy, ugly sort that made her insides crawl, normally. It lay there, almost dead, an odd limb moving once every eighteen seconds. The children didn’t know what to do with this phenomenon. They shrieked in delight, having found something so unusual. They didn’t want to leave it there. She gathered courage, rolled up her sleeves and parked her cycle. Asked the kids to run along and get some old newspaper. Two of them ran in, shouting excitedly. They came back with two sheets of fresh paper. It wasn’t enough. She didn’t know how she’d do it. Still, she picked up the cricket bat that the kids had left lying near the wall and slowly pushed the half dead, dying-any-moment-now gecko onto the paper. Now, to pick up the paper and keep it close to the wall away form the road so no one would run over it. She managed to do it. The kids clapped, embarrassedly, not knowing how else to react.

She went to pick up her cycle and saw a mangy dog walk up to her. Its skin was tired. She followed her home. They were friends from before.

 

Later on in the day, she met you and didn’t say a word about what’d happened and how she’d somehow managed to put the gecko in a safer place.

You said she was the only girl you’d ever love. You were besotted. She was warm with this knowledge and her days and nights smiled.

 

It’s been months and she’d had no news from you. You asked her to move on. She hasn’t yet. Waiting is such a heart wrenching game. No word, letter, number, warmth, love from you. She buried you deep inside till you got in touch.

Once she’d said sorry for something stupid she’d said. You said it was okay. No fret. You both walked on. Hand in hand. You were back in your childhood, the two of you, walking across the city, finding new things each day. The chaiwala knew you well. You sat under the tree and had your chai, talking about things, so many things, all sorts of things.

 

What should she tell the tree now? 

Sorry would seem so incongruous.

 

The other morning, when she was getting home in an autorickshaw and the driver took the worst route ever, she had an argument with him. The kind she loathes. When he took a u-turn and got her home from the route she preferred, she thought a while about it. When she reached home and waited for the auto driver to give her the change back, she said sorry. He said it was okay. No fret. He drove off, she walked on. She knew she’d seen disdain in his eyes and that she had probably spoilt his day.

 

Sometimes saying sorry is just not enough. What if all the bombers of the world met up one day, underground, right under the coffee shop you visit as often as you can, and decided to collectively apologize to the world for all the crime they’ve committed? What if they came out, half an hour later and stood on the roadside, forming a long long human chain, all the news reporters and journos crowding around, and said sorry? No, I mean, a really Loud s o r r y ? Would it be okay?

 

Today, she writes this to you. She hates goodbyes and yet, she’s said them often. She wishes you’d leave her be or just run back to her, but never ever stay the way you are right now, so far away, so so cold and distant.

 

Even if you did say sorry, I wonder if anything would get better. You don’t even say sorry, to try and make things better. If you did, would she say it’s okay and walk on. Would the chapter close?

A poem written by coyote

gave me some visuals in my mind's eye

 

the visual is up there, called 'rarified'

the poem is here

The canvas I started painting a few weeks ago isn't finished yet. It's tentatively called 'Random digits for Ma'. It's for my mum, who has had a hand surgery and she is now, busy turning her woe into ambidexterity. She's started writing with her left hand, although after a minor mishap in the kitchen, when she was trying to cook somethng, has got her banned from entering the kitchen. The result? Yours truly has picked up a lot more cooking than she had ever had the interest or courage  to, in the last two and a half decades. In three weeks, I've turned from So and So of instant noodle and creamy coffee fame, to the chef aide. I am the supreme assistant to my father who can make a sumptious meal out of close to nothing, before you can say....oh! what're we going to have for dinner? And yes, when I'm left sole incharge of meals for the day, I can proudly say now, you will be served a fair fare. And what's more, your insides won't be griping the next morning.. har har!

 

Back to what I started writing about. The canvas. I made a mistake and don't even have the heart to repent it now. I was painting this canvas with random digits way into the night. Infact, each early morning, insane hours of the night/day, saw me adding a score of digits each day. And in the day this canvas remained covered with a tie dyed piece of cloth. Then one day, I showed it to my mum. She was intrigued.

Eversince, I haven't added a single digit more to the canvas. I don't know why. When it was hidden, covered up in tie and dye, it was a mystery. I made the mistake of doing away with the mystery too soon. It has hampered the speed at which the painting was coming alive.

 

So, perhaps, mystery is essential. Dave says I should let things be veiled in mystery...for the interest to go on.

 

Now, I set out on yet another journey. I am attempting to paint out some poems written by Coyote. This time around, I will let them remain unshown, exposed or over exposed, or even Underexpsed. I will just not expose them before they are done.

 

Acrylic and Oil paints, I bid adieu to you for now. And you there, shy watercolors, whom I have been avoiding like a project guide, I welcome you now, out from your hiding place. Come forth and lie all over the handmade paper, spread out and make yourself comfortable, let your colorful limbs mix around, I like amalgams!

 

As for the Random digits...I've covered it again, in hope to renew the enigma of something that's already been shown. Perhaps I will give it a face lift, change the way it looks completely! I'm so full of hope right now...told you, this good cheer that was released on the 6th of November this year, is going to last a long time....