Ani

This is to:
Bacterial Growth curves and every Lassaign’s test messed and the fireworks and swears.
To the broken funnel, to the rusted cabinet lock, to bunked Physics classes, to cheap ice-creams, shared tiffins, and dhosas and papri-chaats, and to drowsy Pass classes, the Girl’s Common Room, bus rides, borrowed money, and the summers and winters of one semester lived.
This is, also to, long walks along brick roads, and around the college tracks and frantic complains and deepest secrets shared in intense conversations; advices given, and taken.
Or, to the little bit of me you have in you, and the little bit of you, I have in me...

One of my closest friends from college has finally found love. One of such rare kinds, that lasts, and blossoms, and is lost and found, and killed and resurrected, time to time.
And so, there's this sudden flood of happiness somewhere, for her, for them, and mostly for Love:
Thanks for being.

Falling =)

It's been raining for some time.
The faded red bricks of the slum roofs are shimmering quietly in the new sun. The sky’s swirling into varieties of blues now and then. Creepers and crawlers and mauve bougainvillea are glistening with all their love and fury.
And threads of sunshine filtering through crannies and crevices, trespassing dark rooms and darker souls, are flooding everything with wobbly shadows. So the Lesser Secrets and the Greater Secrets are mixing and moving and defying boundaries and looking for orifices. And newer secrets are sprouting from somewhere deep, rippling on the Surface, swelling with life and color, settling in the heart.

For some time recently, the half-asleep, half-drowsy Neverland, with its little bit of magic still left in this world, and the soft, tender nudges of Life, are weakly talking of dreamy Possibilities.

Simla

(This, was by Didi)

'Impossible is just a big word thrown by small men who find it easier to live in the world they have been given to live in than explore the power they have to change it.
Impossible is not a fact. It is an opinion.
Impossible is not a declaration. It is a dare.
Impossible is potential.
Impossible is temporary.
Impossible is nothing.'

-Reebok Showroom, Simla


I was sent two beautiful pictures of a very warm evening spent at dad's friends', in the hills of Simla, and I'm reminded of chocolate brownies, lemon juice, doi-machh, sunsets, Jinnah and black, rugged mountains studded with diamonds, that glimmer at nightfall.

And also, of four strangers, I'd perhaps never meet again, in the story of my Life, Time, or the Universe.

How does it feel when you do not have much to show the world?

And, with every freaking person around, suddenly revealing hidden talents?

Exactly.

Black, White and Gray

The first person inside,
Struggles to be free from the fetters of Poetry,
And sulks at the Futility,
Of enforcing ‘discipline’, and her black-and-white world,
Colorless, plastic and ‘Moral’

The second person inside,
With her perennial conceit, vehemence, arsenal,
Knows the chinks in the armour, so
Rattles up she, with forbidden thoughts,
Trespassing forbidden lands,
Unafraid of prosecution, while

The third person inside,
Torn between,
Two Thoughts, two Selves, two Souls,
Dandles;

Sits and plans 'the Day'.

(January, 2007)

The rickety, crumbling skeleton of the one-year-old miracle is rattling quietly like a secret.

And little bits of faded-jaded magic, still left in the reeks of musty pages of withered diaries, in saved emails and in the wind and the skies and the trees and in rags of thoughts left here and there on brown brick walls and cement floors of the roof-top, over the Patton tank, on the broken chair, about the tubs and the flowers; are wondering whether to be or not to be.

Whether to be, or whether there will be, a new story of three sixty five days.