And those who cannot love - will be forgiven.

When it rains on a sleeping city - a fistful of yesterday's unhappiness gets placed on my palms. It is like the city knows that I had run away. And right now - I sit ensconced in the left over moisture of the night's cloudburst hiding from another city.

A familiar heartache. The fresh feel of nascent salt water - happens every time I leave. It is like I am running away all over again. I wish there was time to sit down and stroke the demons to sleep. Let them know that even love is a war. A terrible war. The casualties are far too many and there are no flesh wounds.

The familiarity of my surroundings had let me sleep peacefully after days. I dreamt - jolted out of sleep and with a strange ease - slipped right back in. Every single day of the past few - I have fraught in despair with my dreams - begging the city to forgive.

I am like a fugitive here.
And I am told - by the old staircase, the haunting empty terrace, the rain swept night - those who cannot love - will be forgiven.

A want half fulfilled...

I was finally in the hills. Craving for it like a starved dog craves a morsel I woke up in the middle of the night to feel the chill in my bones – the stinging air on my cheeks. I didn’t know where I was – some odd roadside stall with washrooms that stank of human detritus. I was pulled out of my seat – feel the cold. You HAVE to feel the cold. And I took a deep breath in – it hurt to drag the pure air in. The stars were so stark and bright up here. How much longer, I asked. A few hours.

The next I opened my eyes I was surrounded by humanity in a busy little town. The hills were still there. A comforting presence of sorts – like a mother to a sick child. You have wanted it for so long – they would be there till you recovered.

My eyes hungrily followed the river, reverse, up its course, higher and higher, spiral roads in to the mountains. I didn’t care about a name, an identity – it was everything that all that I had ached for was right there. The snow draped mountains far, far away – were this beacon of seduction. We weren’t going that far up – not this time.

That one road called a town – almost hidden amongst the pine and the mountains. To wake up to see the pines and step out to see the mountains. Life could come to a stop there and not move a muscle. Die a permanent death sealed in the freezing cold and bliss.

If I woke up to a mountain every day – I would not have an ego.

How could I? For here was nature’s indomitable marker of an ego – and to pit mine against the sheer rock face would be a farce. I would have dreamed off only one thing every day – to scale that height and sooner or later – every other human being’s ego would become irrelevant. If their ego did not exist – how would mine? At God-moments – there is no ego.

The next few days passed in a haze. Of furry, friendly dogs, food, the perpetual smell of herbs, ice cold bed sheets that took hours to warm, long walks and the river.

The river…oh the river. It was the story of every life flowing over well worn rocks to oblivion. Every soul in the world could sit there and see every moment from birth to death twirl in the rapids. The stunning blue, the iridescent white that moved too fast to adequately reflect the watery sunlight. Racing, running, romancing the white exposed rock faces with a slight of hand.

And there was the creaky bridge. I wanted to stand there perpetually and see the seasons change.

Hours were wiled away next to the river, in long walks to nearest settlements, in cafes, in idle conversation.

Ever walk meant a furry, happy companion. One black, brown eyed fellow, who seemed to be called ‘Winner’ took on our company from Chalal to Kasaul. As I stepped on to the bridge, he followed bravely. No sooner was he next to me staring at the waters, a big, off-white, one was sitting there looking at him threateningly from the other end of the bridge. Every step Winner took towards Kasaul, the off-white took a menacing step on to the bridge. In seconds, Winner turned on his furry tail and made a dash back for Chalal with the off-white in hot pursuit.

The day we were to leave, we woke up to rain and fog. I had been dreaming of the rains in the hills – and here it was. The mountains all around had snow on the top. It was heartbreaking. I did not have the time to go there. The idiocy in the plains demanded me back. I tried to fill my eyes with the visions of snow – not to miss a single scene – it was like a drug. It physically hurt to not be able to touch the white or feel the particles melt on my skin. Next time, I promise you, the next time.

I could not close my eyes for a moment as I traveled down. I kept cursing myself for the lack of a good camera. I had cursed myself throughout the days for the lack of one – the absence of it had grown more dire at this instance.

I drank in the scenes as they passed – wondering when I could be back again. I did not need the people, the voices, the comfort of anything more than a place to sleep. And food, occasionally. Perhaps.

And just as it had begun – it was all over. The bone chilling cold, the air that turned every word to vapour, the never ending flow of the clear blue water and more mountains far far away.

I will need to go back. It is a rule that cannot be broken.

New Year.

A quarter of a life rolled back like injured skin
Blood peeking out from the edges – threatening to tell a little more than I intend to let know.

The rushes of the night, in cold clammy comfort, till sweat wraps my neck and am buried in your arms. This kind of love is a tome.

A quarter of a life rolled away. We have all tried to die, in as much ease a bastard touch would allow, tried to smother to death a part of a reality in wine and breath of yester years.

Learned to say no to things that tease you to live. Over and over – every passing day. Need I be afraid?

Afraid of electric thoughts that rise from below, the rush of blood on my cheeks, the glazy eyes – shut tight against humanity – a quarter of a life rolled away.

For the next quarter that has come, wiped the uterine slime off its back and risen to the occasion in a drunken mess.

There will come a time – when progenitors will know – that in all things pretty – something broken always grows.

Prologue.

The city had not been kind to her. Not entirely unkind either.

Just as it tried with all possible decency to sever the umbilical bonds she had with hand painted walls of a house near the posh golf courses, it spoke to her, in the initial months – with the same decency.

Then the language turned harsh. The cajoling was gone. The requests turned in to absurd orders at the oddest times. The touch that sometimes soothed became that loathsome hand of a violator – trying to touch her inappropriately as she tried to rush about life.
And while she struggled to learn how to walk in the labyrinths – the city dragged her unceremoniously to t-points of heavy traffic – leaving her there – telling the people- “Look! She has NO clue about life! Or in that matter bout anything in general…”

Stumbling around graceless, she appeared to others covering ground with a confident stride. But sooner or later this echoing emptiness would fill her insides and wiping away left over tears – fingers would reach out for a pen. Or tap on the keys of a steel machine – absent mindedly. Or hunch over a note book in the busy heart of a metro.

She was convinced now that writers were inordinately insane. To want to shake the world for what it was worth was an intense form of neurosis.

The Kingfisher

I think of those orphan moments when I feel content loving you. Feel that everything in the universe is exactly in the right place. But only in a few orphan moments. The days we come face to face there are no qualms, no bad feelings. Just two individuals rushing towards each other with this speed of love. So perfect.

Then morning comes and we go trudging towards borders and daily duties. I feel like I am walking away the thing I love to oblivion. To the edge of the city. Then standing there to wave him good bye. Lord knows when our paths will cross again.

When I was really tiny, someone had got me a kingfisher. The bird sat scared and stubbornly on my father’s camera kit. He refused to budge, he refused to eat. My mother was scared it would die. Kingfishers are not meant to be tamed or kept as pets – she told me. I had no particular affection for the bird – I was too small. It held as much concentrated interest in its stunning colours as any of my other toys did.

Then one day my mother took me by the hand and took the bird to the edge of this lake. Where the road ended and all that lay ahead was putrid, marshy path of rotting carcasses of hyacinths. The stunning lavenders bloomed a few feet away. She held my hand tight so as I would not be encouraged to venture further. She asked me to hold the bird for one last time. I looked at her and then looked at the hyacinth covered lake edges – “Why? Isn’t he coming home with us?” – “No. We are setting him free. He’ll go to his family now.” – “ Why was he with us? Where did his family go then?” – “ I don’t know,” Ma said…"...Perhaps they missed him..."

She let the kingfisher fly away. When it took flight and never looked back I wanted it more than anything in the world. More than the new toys. More than the fish shaped peppermints, more than the new hair clips which matched my shoes.

To see it fly away like it was waiting for the feel of wind and Calcutta moisture on its stunning wings for eternity – made me want him.

I looked back once on the walk home. Perhaps he liked my dad’s camera equipment case more than a stray electric wire or his nest. Or even more than his family. Maybe if he had stayed I would have convinced him to eat my share of the fish.

Sometimes, I feel that you are that kingfisher.

Delhi-Noida-Delhi

The angry rising heat
Separating its weight
From the naked, violated earth
Screaming profanities at the half sickle of a faded communist moon.

The numerous wheels
Shouting and shuttling between lives
The human and the half-beast.

Smells burn
Wipe their ash streaked limbs across expectant, hungry faces.

Sometimes when the metro hurtles over the pregnant waters
A deep desire arises for an unexpected halt
And the shrill sound of open gates and alarms
So as the muddy purity can swallow some more detritus
Add some more relieved carcasses to its womb.

Amen.

Worldwise- Worldly Wise

You don't bring me flowers any more.
The violets have frozen and the valley has no more flowers this season.
And you don't even write.
For the words have perished in these frantic unplanned rains and sleet like those apple blossoms you described.
The river had its floods and the banks widened,
Rivulets spread like wrinkles that I am growing around my eyes.
Not that old yet- but getting older.
And in all art and honesty, tomorrow may see some tire tracks away from the usually trodden and
Yet- the face in the mirror will be clearer than ever.
You don't talk to me these days.
But I do. There is just too much to put a finger on.
But then you should regurgitate in absolute disregard and I shall remain ever.
Steadfast.
Worldwsie and Worldly Wise.

Dilli Darshan- a little differently.

House hunting in Delhi.

I can safely assure you, that even looking for - a needle in a hay stack, a decent-rich-smart-man to marry, a fool proof dissertation topic- any of these, all of these are exponentially easier to find.

No matter what your budget- a ‘better’ house is always 5000 bucks away. JUST five thousand. And the brokers (God help this breed) assure you that this elusive 5000 is not much of an issue at all- “See…” they proceed to explain, “You just end up paying a little more.” I vehemently shake my head and say- NO.

An extra 2.5k is not a favourite coffee add on. Thank you.

You can very easily find the oddest architecture – like a staircase in the middle of a make shift second bedroom that goes down to a basement, which has a room that the land lord assures you- can be made in to a bedroom. Though it has NO windows, no doors, just a staircase that leads to it and some cupboards below the stairs. Frankly- I’d rather live in that cupboard.

And also the oddest ‘requests’- guys cannot stay, perhaps they can visit for a few hours. But they cannot stay. Of course we bring over guys by the dozen dear land lord- we like excitement every hour. And the few hours they are there- as if I cannot ‘do’ what I want in that, is it? And one land lord even went on to say- I will not allow boys in the house; for as his past experience goes- one of his tenants got knocked up. Since he is so vehement about it- am vaguely suspicious that HE had something to do with the matter.

Well then- keep your house with you- shove it in some unholy dirty crevice of your rectum and shut it.

Please talk nice to the owners. Repeat most politely for the umpteenth time- where you work, what your work hours are, where you study, where you are from, how many people at home, the name of your puppy and the colour of the new shows you bought. By all means. Ask for my DNA profile as well- please do- THAT will assure our parents that we shall be safely taken care of.

Since we are two girls living ‘alone’ – we must be needing guidance and surveillance and things like that. Of course! Why don’t you send your domestic help with me to work every day- JUST so as I am safe.

Every property- is VERY GOOD property. Even if it is a little hole in the wall. Every location is prime and vaastu approved. With 24 hour security- even if it is a guard who is too busy betting on cards and drunk.
Respect the profession- not the actions!

And perhaps, as a way to calm your self down. Tomorrow is always another day with more brokers, more houses beyond your budget, more long pointless conversations with people you will never meet again. This is for those who have accompanied me in this 'holy' quest, people who have done this earlier, will do it again and MOST IMPORTANTLY- people who have calmly heard me rant about these series of unfortunate events. Thank you.

Such is life.
Going to the moon is easier. Trust me.

And did you?

And did you ever love me?
That halfmoon kind of love?
Lazy in a longing that curls around your fingers like my hair that you never could touch?
A fragment of grey like a lip stain on your palm.
A shivering act of anger and resentment and I begged you to stop him.
And did you ever love me?
Call me after days to tell me that you can and cannot do without those few lines of poetry.
And deliberate miles that seperate.
And did you ever love me?
Even in half serrated words of a thesaurus full of passion and longing for a girl you never fully knew?
In measured steps of un-hurry, dry summer nights and the branches of yellow. Of accusations and lies of a million years.
I never stood there calling out to you for a chance or hope.
I never stood there, waiting. Wishing, longing that halfmoon of an existance in your eyes.
And did you ever love me?
This kind of love is ever easy. Ever so easily melted over pen drawn lines on pressed dry memory leaves.
The one desire to wipe the moisture off my lips.
A single, orphan desire of some resurrection of a text book perfect love.
In making peace with the chaos that I am, the darkest of clouds obscured a vision.
The rains unclogged some more love that I rushed towards the snow instead.

And did you?

I hate love- Neil Gaiman

Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up these defenses, you build this whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life. You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They do something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own any more. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. not just in the mind. It's a soul hurt, a body hurt, a real gets inside you and rips you apart pain. I hate love. - Neil Gaiman


(Was too big for a status message. But I had to put it up :))

And no - this is just an awesome quote - I do not think like this 'always'.