Akimbo in Bombay Rain.

This post comes delayed, very delayed. K ’s mind has become as erratic as the rains. K awaits a cathartic downpour, but all she receives is a plenitude of a trickle.

Rains are magical to Mumbai, they are the witches Morrigan summons every year to protect this Venusian mistress. The smell of the city is like no other, its moods unmatched. Her pendulum nature is quite an addiction.

A walk from Churchgate station to Kala Godha at 8.30 am sipping a cup of hot coffee in a consistent drizzle, gives you a lesson in love. The fragrance of human commotion is visible and forgiven, for the sheer pleasantness of weather. The over looming aroma of coffee and gudan garm; alternating with the sharp smell of cutlets and samosas submerged in fuming palm oil, to the crisp fragrance of freshly baked bread, and somewhere at an unexpected juncture you can smell god in potted mogras.

The wake-up calls from the Koyal, the man who jogs at the oval from 8.15 to 8.45 every day, the septuagenarian on the 3^rd floor of Court View stands from 8 am onwards by the window watching grumpy, sleepy migrants haul their bodies to work every morning.

How can one miss the man who changes his wind-chimes every monsoon? (The earliest I recall was a large bronze sun; a ball of shimmering gold. The next came, long hollow bamboo shoots, making odd khadak, khadak sounds, annoying but familiar to the heart. Presently the aluminum/steel trinket brought from a $1 store has taken over. it hangs in there, on the so called balcony - a testimony of a Chinese worker's craft that made its journey into a South Bombay apartment.

(A walk across the Oval deserves to be a stand-alone experience to be narrated)

The silence in the Quila court corridors is far more pleasant than the joy of justice at vormittag. The Army restaurant, where no defense personnel ever ate, has opened its shutters as a scrunched child labor swabs the floors with hot water. Across the lane, stands a muted, large, beautiful structure with never opened rotted gates. On its broad stone steps, drug addicts, infested with flies sleep away, abandoning the city’s mirth.

As K walks across welcoming the Rhythm house only for its architecture, she nods at a familiar set of brown eyes. He silently stands at the opposite corner, looking at the black horse painted across a pub, named after a whore- house street. He smiles at her, she responds, they talk about a new element that they discovered in the horse that day. ‘It is in motion’ if you observe carefully. She agrees.

They part ways, he heads to the blindingly blue synagogue and she disappears into the opaque beige lanes.

Love Again....

It's fascinating how i never get bored of writing about love and b'bay. Both are phenomenal emotions indeed!

K confesses
~"it just ran its course. It was an act of perfection - complete in it's candor, with a premise and a conclusion. I think we lived it fully.

I have learnt that you can not hold someone’s love against them.
Just as you can not hold your absence of love against you."

Equinox

Often when I think that things can not be worse than they already are. When the dark is only growing darker and that the rays of Ra must have faded away, I think of the dark lord. I know he'll bear the first tear in the morbid skies and spew light; for lies in his heart is the prism of equinox

Randomness from the heart

I need to insulate my nerves, against me.

Poetics of Wisdom

I learnt, when in the final year of Masters, that everything i perceived as original till that moment was, in fact a product of time past. My so called spurts of wisdom, creativity, intelligence and counter catechisms - were in fact already expressed in different and sometimes much better forms. Hence everything that has to be written is already written, even what I’m about to write.

I think thoughts from a borrowed consciousness,
the same that existed before my electronic or paper notebook arrived.

They were captured and then extinguished
like mine will be when the blog dies,
when the book decays.
Then sometime a million years later
when modes of expressions have deferred and differed
someone will think my thoughts
thoughts that were borrowed from a consciousness
before mine.

As Soul sista often teaches me - all expression must be made, irrespective of its audience, devoid of failure or success. Some thoughts are heard soon, some later; some just float for generations and build the rule-book of time.

Once Upon a Time...

She seived the water resting in the hills.
The purity of his mind made it immortal.

A blue boy made a tear in its karma.

The blue boy was forbidden from heaven.
The blue boy was worshipped by man.