A Madness of a Different Kind.

For K life has been a cyclone ride in Essel World, there is a slow drawn high and then a steep fall. Then a smaller slower drawn high and then again a fall. You get the picture. It’s an adventure, may not always be a pleasant one, none the less an adventure.

Love has played a good deal of a part in K’s life. Love for the roar of an ageing lion in National Park, a frenzied stray puppy drowning in a gutter, the quadrangle of Ruparel, the chaos of train travel, the most beautiful fragrances of the Khao gully, the lost land of education built on a swamp, a crazed, solitude friendly, mute, mathematician, love for the kind Black Pearl, for the dingy apts, for all the envy, love for my first byline. For meeting popular people, beautiful people with great lives; Love for the twinkle in the eye of a gossip monger, love for the death of it all, love for contentment and the boredom it brought, love for the risk of spoiling it all, and then going ahead and spoiling it all. The guilt, the excuse, the oh, what the fuck!, and the moving on…

The first time Oyster Seeker was in my bedroom, I was showing him my nick-knacks. I was happy with my all enclosed life and he zapped at it.  A long while later, he told me that it was the weirdest thing he had seen – A woman, who kept everything neatly folded in boxes,  then she opened them, unfolded everything and re-arranged the already arranged and put them back into boxes.

Everything time I do it, I remember of him. Today I am doing it again, and as I see from this point on, my life looks quite like my favorite hobby.

It is indeed quite inconsequential, like a circus in circles.   

2010

resolutions, solutions, reforms.
So there I have said it. I am sorry for you K - for all I put you through. I shall try and erase this pain.

Makar Sankrant

A thousand scones and a thousand eyes, A thousand skies and a thousand sighs. But no wind to blow a kite stuck on a wallow.

Names and some more in words

All writing is a work of faction. I have said it and I stand by it. A letter from a fellow blogger, Flabbergasted, questioned if my work was autobiographical? The answer is Yes and No. Firstly it is not work, not by 'work's' current definition, it only writing. In my opinion, fiction provides a certain flavor to a fact that would otherwise appear 'fantastic'. Imagination, like the Pandora, unleashes ways in which you can re-write a fact without cold-cutting it.

Zum Beispiel - When you meet that perfect man/ woman, you seek to find that one blind spot where he/she will fall. That one glitch in the making will assure you that he/she is human and therefore worthy of love; till then your suspicion will run rampant. That glitch is imagination, which holds life through all suspicions.

Kala Godha

A place at two time zones, can be scarily unfamiliar.

Gyaan

“Those years were more attractive in retrospect, than they were when I was living them. K, our past often looks brighter in hindsight. The trying times become acts of glory and the beauty magnified."

" This is all yours. And if you do not take care of it, one day it will still be all yours."
- Enlighten said it when in conversation with Oyster Seeker and K.
It has stuck with her.

Pushkar Diaries 5

In the land of dust, I heard the plight of an Indian woman. Sung by the wife to a god, in brandishing classical ragas that stirred something within, a déjà vu, of a knot-like feeling I had to digest while I read the ‘second sex’.

The song goes on to narrate Rukmini’s marriage to Krishna as she parts in her Doli, on her journey to his palatial house. She exclaims, ‘to be sold to another man, without dowry is worse than to be sold in the first place. My abilities have been mentioned with clarity to my new keepers, and only those that would profit my master have been cultivated. Everything that he may not like will be me. In my tears, I will understand the reason for such slavery and maybe in rejection, I may find myself.”

Pushkar Diaries 4

The days are filled with chats and food and walks and scenic beauty. the mornings wonderfully long and lazy with American breakfast. at any time pre-noon, noon, after-noon, the Sunset cafe, a sprint's time from my chosen haven in Pushkar, we lounge for nibbles and vicariously live the life across the ghat.  

However...

In the night of being, I visited many parts of my mind. The silence seething its teeth deeper, when the world takes a back seat and the beat of the Jambe reverberates within the soft soil. Minutes later a handmade Didgeridoo joins in, the breeze rustles the Ashoka and someone lights a Jason. They go in tandem, like elements or senses, never over-shadowing one another. The body rests, the spirit awakens all that the body can absorb.

The magic will last in some part of my conscious forever. It’s a liberating awakening of oneself. A space refreshing for each organ, each sheath of skin, each sense - and all in giving silent moments.

Pushkar Diaries 3

Gods from another time.
A ringing of temple bells at four inviting the dawn.
The morning smoke of cannabis. The spiritual discussions influenced by trance and magic mushrooms. A dam on a dried lake. Timeless firangi eccentricity of travelers bumping into each other as writers to a parable. A heart awakens with the tales of Kodai and Hrishikesh. Clothes are shed, with months and months of freedom to look forward to. Real food is eaten, hot, spicy, sandy with sweet camel milk.

Dreadlocks and dementia never seemed more natural and in tune with the universe.

Pushkar Diaries 2

more like scraps from Pushkar.

Night Fall.

The city sleeps, all back but a blue box shimmers in the sky. The waters in the lakes reflected the borrowed light from the moon.
In a dingy café across the dry lake I hear Jimmy Hendricks. He is alive – and so is the alternative culture in the laps of Brahma and wood fire pizza. This alternative world is actually beautiful; though I won’t leave the one I have for it! I should learn the art of skipping into other worlds. It is mighty refreshing.

A home

You can not build an old house. There is something in the scraping walls that no amount of fresh paint can conceal.
You can not built an old house, trying to fix and fit antiques with technology and molded plastic is not a way of bring the new world into the old, or retaining the old into the new.
The new 'old' houses appear to be a cheap imitation of something better that was long ignored.

evil

K is always secretly unhappy and wishes ill of friends who have done better.

especially after using K as a crutch to reach their goals.

PS. this is not something that K wanted to write - what a wonderful way to start the new year - with a reality check inside my mind.