Love: a concoction of passion and pity

{an odd feeling rises in her when he messages. there is something between them, like bitter gourd soaked in honey. The hitch is, only in it's purest form can the gourd be relished. Ergo, she tortured him, with her brunt brass eyes, then her impudent passion, then the lack of it and then with her frozen soul. he had been full of love, love that would make butterflies feel safer, she was an echo less abyss.}

~ she does not want to hold him,
^ he does not want to be held.

^ he had called her a home-breaker, a mistress, a raw green chilly.
~ she had asked him to bugger off and go lick some sugar coated frostie.

~ she had missed his verse,
^ he had missed her, in every act.

^ he had called,
~ she had thwarted.

^ still love you, in spite of you
~ still do too, in my own way

^ maybe we shall cross our paths sometimes. I will see you then.
~ See you when our paths he cross. Not before, not after.

^ Guess somethings will never change. I do not miss you.
~ I know.

^ I know.


{he returned, repeatedly, sans ego. his liquid love could never fill her mind. her body was a thousand pores, every drop of love would be absorbed and then drained away. he had a lot of love to give, and he had wasted it all on her. his passion for her made him dark droll man, and she wasn't an inch wiser.}

- - the conversation was left there - well rounded. they thought of the past, the cursed present, and an hopeful future.

the maybes' in our life can hold us ransom, either by our throats or by a fragile sun beam.

'Cest la Vie'

This one was completely unexpected : then again, it rarely occurs to my nimble mind what is and is not living life....

 

ingredients : 1 ounce of meringue love, 3 table spoons of ground dark chocolate regret, 1/2 tea spoon of cornflour failure, 1 ounce of passion fruit (skinned and chopped), pinch of salt and dried angry chilly.

Pushkar Diaries - 6

It took K 12 years to quell her fear and get back on the giant wheel! And this time too, it halted, maybe just for a couple of minutes, but it did halt right at the top. What K saw was worth another swallow of fear - fading lights of town-life, an expanse of camels, horses and sand, infinite sand, kissing the horizon, humming the shrubbery to sleep.

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.”