Omani Nights

Oman debunks the myth that the Arab world tends to be removed from the rest of the world with its numerous efforts to collaborate with Asia, Europe and America.

The old world character and immense greenery of Muscat are a pleasure to behold.

Perhaps one of the most attractive aspects of Salalah is that it actually enjoys a monsoon season!

These are lines from some of the numerous articles I’ve written on Oman and its major cities for a newspaper called Global Jobs. Over the years, I’ve read so much about this Arabian pearl and I’ve marvelled at its unblemished beauty in photographs. But alas, I’ve had to recreate this country in words without ever having the privilege of experiencing it for real.

So when I needed information on what to do and where to go while in Oman, I had to look no further than my own inbox! Years of research on the living conditions, culture, weather and business environment in Oman, Muscat and Salalah lay in front of me. And to supplement that in terms of breath-taking images and picturesque descriptions was Oman’s tourism website: http://www.omantourism.gov.om/

 

When I look at images of Jabreen Castle or the sun-kissed Jabal Shams, I feel as though I’ve known the hypnotic deserts of Oman in a previous lifetime. To quote from the Arabian nights:

And I have regretted the separation of our companionship :: An eon, and tears flooded my eyes
And I’ve sworn if time brought us back together :: I’ll never utter any separation with my tongue

I imagine having been an Arabian princess, swathed in the gorgeous harem pants and blouses that royal women were then wont to wear. I might have gone for my morning bath at AlKasfah Spring, accompanied by my merry companions. And then we would have submerged ourselves in its invigorating warm water and pondered over the deeper questions of life while gazing into its serene aquamarine depths.

 

At dusk, I might have sneaked into Jabreen Castle for a secret rendezvous with my Arabian lover. Masked by its majestic turrets, we might have been enthralled by a belly dancing performance. I would have dreamt of shimmying for an adoring audience, my pretty sequins reflecting the dancing flames of the campfire.

As a mark of rebellion against my stifling father who asked me to stop meeting my lover, I might have trekked to Jabal Shams or the Sun Mountain. I would have sought refuge in the An Nakhr balcony, a deep ravine in the heart of the rocks. Surrounded by these silent, sympathising bastions of time, I would have plotted escape from a household that dared to shatter my dreams.

To allay the fears of his favourite daughter, my father the Sultan would have taken me on a trip to Mutrah Corniche port in Muscat. We would have picnicked by the sea while he told me the stories behind the ancient structures that kept us company.

In my dreams, I would fly away on a magic carpet to the turtle reserve on the beaches extending from Ras Al Hadd to Masirah Island. I would marvel at the intricate detailing of the green turtle’s shell. This turtle is a rare species that returns every year to lay eggs on the same beach where it was born decades ago. What binds a creature so deeply to its birthplace? And was I bound to Oman in a similar manner? I would mull over questions such as these while I snacked on luscious Omani dates and drank Arabian wine.

An assassination attempt on my father! We would now have to move around with a khanjar, the traditional dagger of Oman, hidden beneath our robes. Under the guise of participating in a horse race, the favourite sport of Omanis, we would ride far, far away from our enemies and hide at the Strait of Hormuz. By day, we would watch the myriad birds at Birds Island and by night, we would plot ways of extricating ourselves from this torturous exile.

Our adventures would take us to the Akhwar (beach lagoons) on whose banks, we would sing traditional Omani songs and recount tales from the times when the beautiful island of Zanzibar used to be Oman’s capital. Beneath the lagoon’s tranquil ripples, there lurked many different kinds of fishes and secret marine denizens. The children in the family would have a lovely time trying to coax them to the surface.

To pray for the swift defeat of our enemies, we would pay a visit to the Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque whose regal corridors and pristine marble floors would instil a sense of faith in the Almighty. In my prayers, I would include a line for my abandoned lover who might be languishing in the sand dunes of Ramlat Tawq, awaiting my return.

Ramlat Tawq would be my lover’s favourite desert with its endless stretches of undulating dunes and proximity to our birthplace, Muscat. Unknown to me, he would go on a quest for my favourite attar (perfume) at the Sohar Handicrafts Souq (market). Ali believes that this perfume would bring me back to his forlorn arms.

Our reunion would finally happen in the blessed glades of the As Saleel Nature Park. Here an Arabian gazelle would watch us shyly while we exchanged promises to be by each other’s side for many different lifetimes to come. We would write down our vows on parchment and bury it beneath an acacia tree, holding nature as witness to the solemnity of our love.

If I ever had the pleasure of setting foot on the history-laden streets of Oman, perhaps the valleys and the flamingos would speak to me in a language I hadn’t even known I understood. Perhaps, they would resurrect memories and impressions of bygone eras – times that my memory was too young to remember but my soul certainly was not. Perhaps, the caves and the canyons, so far away from the city I call home would bring me to a different home altogether – the home I had yearned for all along.

Shukran, Indiblogger (http://www.indiblogger.in/topic.php?topic=110) and the Ministry of Tourism of the Sultanate of Oman, for allowing me the opportunity to live a fantasy through these words. An actual trip would be the crystallisation of a dream I have already seen, many times in my sleep. 

Photos courtesy: http://www.omantourism.gov.om/

The novel that could have been.

Today, I'll tell you a story about a story. My last job was quite uninspiring and unfocussed. It left me with a lot of free time on my hand and a lot of unfulfilled ambition as well. No, my ambition had nothing to do with the corporate world. It had little to do with power and positions. What I wanted was to rework my post-graduation project - a novel I had finished in merely 21 days.

I couldn't possibly risk my bosses peering over my shoulder while I typed away on my office computer. No, I had to find a place and a medium where I could write in private - unobserved and unhindered. Back then, I owned a heavy Toshiba laptop with limited battery life. On one occasion, I managed to lug it to office and from there to my favourite cafe at High Street Phoenix - Dolce Vita. I ordered a beer and set to work on my unwieldy laptop. Alas, the battery began to run out in less than an hour. Just when I was getting into a particularly interesting scene in my story, it was time to stop. What's more, the stress of making sure I had it properly packed made me forget my USB wi-fi enabler at my table itself (I only recalled this omission later - so there was no way to get it back). In the coming days, I lost my pace further and the book remained unfinished for a simple reason - I couldn't find the right technology to write it.

Cut to June 2014. I encountered Indiblogger's new update on the ASUS Transformer Book T100. What interested me was that it came with a detachable tablet. Also, the word 'ultraportable' caught my eye. The truth is, most laptops are as unportable as desktop computers thanks to weight and battery issues. But this one promised to be better than that. I clicked on the link that took me to the product page - http://asusindia.co.in/T100/.

The first thing that caught my eye was the limited period offer - 'Buy an ASUS Transformer Book T100 and get a data 16 GB Micro SD class 10 card free'. 'That's just a gimmick to get people interested', I thought inwardly with my customary cynicism for marketing spiels. But then, I happened to watch the product video that unfolded and I found that literally every feature of the ASUS Transformer Book T100 was designed to keep me hooked even while on the move. Take a look:


Stylish and soft touch coating makes it comfortable to hold: No more grazing my fingers or finding it uncomfortable while the laptop rests on my lap during long journeys on the bus or train!

Switch instantly from an ultraportable laptop to a highly mobile tablet: So once I’ve finished writing a chapter and want to take a break from writing, I can just switch to the tablet and browse through my favourite shopping sites or play some games while playing some groovy music.

Intel quad-core processor: One of the things that deters me from using technology while on the move is the speed. With combined devices, often the speed is compromised but the ASUS Transformer Book T100 promises not to disappoint!

1366x768 display for sharp, vibrant images: What is technology worth if you cannot capture an image of something that touches a chord and then share it instantly with the world at large? And with the ASUS Transformer Book T100, I’d be able to see pictures on Facebook and Flickr in the best quality possible.

Windows 8.1 with Microsoft Office 2013: What else does a writer need? Truth be told, most often, it’s work that keeps me hooked to technology while on the move. And with this super laptop cum tablet, I’ll have no worries about getting work done!

11 hours battery life when web browsing: The need to check on my latest purchases, connecting with friends on social media, sharing articles, reading my favourite ebooks, listening to online radio – all of this keeps me hooked to technology. But with my old laptop, I could do none of it on the move because the battery ran out in less than an hour when unplugged! The ASUS Transformer Book T100 is the perfect solution.

Mobile dock with 19mm travel keys for comfortable typing: No more typing the wrong word when the train jolts or someone pushes past me. Now I can be assured of minimal re-edits with the novel that remains unfinished!

USB 3.0 superspeed port: So I’m with a friend in the park and we’re transferring images from her pendrive to my laptop. Alas, it takes ages to do it and before we’re done, my laptop runs out of power. This picture could look quite different with the the ASUS Transformer Book T100!

Dedicated reading mode: I can say goodbye to aching eyes while I read ebooks on pale light, which hardly matches the experience of reading a real book in well-lit surroundings. And wait, now with the ASUS Transformer Book T100, I won’t have to save to buy a Kindle any more!

Still not convinced? Watch the video for yourself here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W7NgPvQZr7A

 

Having read and heard so much about this seemingly wonderful product, I was aching to hold it and see what it felt like. Luckily, the rotate button on the website http://asusindia.co.in/T100/ allowed me to gain a 360-degree view of the laptop cum tablet. I liked the stylish steel gray colour and the slimness of the device. Here is what it looks like from the back:

The fact that the device comes with 32GB storage would also keep me hooked while on the move. After all, there are movies to be watched, songs to be heard and books to be read! And research material for my novel occupies its own sweet space too. Frankly, by now, it had begun to feel as though it might be time to reopen the folder that housed the chapters I had been reworking on. The device runs on a 2GB ram, which is faster than most phones and tablets. So I could run multiple programs on it without having the computer slow down. A 1.2 megapixel camera ensures that if I’ve forgotten my phone at home, I can still record the important moments of my life while on the move. And I forgot to mention the best thing. The ASUS Transformer Book T100 is priced at just 32,999 rupees! I know, it’s quite unbelievable. That’s less than the price of several high-end phones! And here you don’t just get a product. You get a whole new incredibly transformed lifestyle. Still don’t get why I’m so wowed with the ASUS Transformer Book T100? Watch this: (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVFlmlj51Ok)

I can totally imagine being one of the jet-setting folks in the video. Think about it – this tablet weights just 550 grams! It’s going to feel really, really light – for lack of an appropriate simile! The video says – stop for nothing. I wish ASUS had told me that back in 2013 when I was trying to complete that novel! But maybe just maybe, if I can get my hands on it, that novel will see the light of day after all. As a parting thanks for reading this post, I’ll leave you with yet another wonderful video of the incredible ASUS Transformer Book T100 (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UM1KH3R1IMs)

P.S.: You can find more videos and dope on this product at www.facebook.com/ASUSIndia. This post is a part of the Indiblogger ' Time to Transform!’ contest (http://www.indiblogger.in/topic.php?topic=109). What keeps you hooked on to technology even when you're on the move? Is it playing your favourite games, talking to friends, catching up on some work you love doing? Write a blog post on the things that you think will keep you hooked to a "Transformed" T100 when you're on the move. The most creative and original posts win exciting prizes. 

This moment is forever.

Would you ponder so much about the meaning of life if you knew you’d be gone tomorrow? Time is directly proportional to thought, I believe. The more time we believe we have, the more energy we waste on thinking. If you knew you’d be gone tomorrow, all you’d want to do is live. But in the absence of such a pressing deadline, we keep postponing the living and we keep prioritising the mulling. It’s good to mull over things like birds and sunshine and the colour of your tea. But I’m not sure it’s such a good idea to mull over the lack of direction in your relationship or the uninspiring nature of your job. It may not be a good idea to spend precious minutes analysing the defects in your appearance and the faults in your peers. Perhaps philosophising is a purer form of thought. But it’s still not as good as running, singing or loving. It’ll never be as good as baking a cake or eating one. Sometimes when I’m working out, I’ll start to wonder what the point is if my body is going to be ashes one day anyway. Why should I invest so much time in sculpting and perfecting it? The answer is simple. Because in this moment, it feels good. It’s rewarding, exhilarating and it gives me purpose. Even if I were to be gone tomorrow, today would have all the meaning in the world. The future does not lend definition to your present moment. The present lends definition to the present moment. 

Of friends, acquaintances and almost-strangers.

Courtesy: Alexramos10 on Pixabay

Friendship was easy when we were in kindergarten - we met those kids everyday - we played, we talked and occasionally, we were invited to each other's homes. We didn't squabble over why we didn't call each other often enough or take offense over innocent remarks. Oh, we might have broken each other's toys or given each other memorable bruises but hey, all was fair in love and war.

I had a lot of friends back then. I still do. But I have no idea if they'll be my friends seven years hence - or for that matter, even seven days hence. Because it seems like no one (including me) makes an effort any more. And when we do, the chances of causing damage seem much higher than getting it right.

Friendship is easiest when you see your friend everyday - perhaps at work, the gym or at college. But when you don't, be prepared to deal with innumerable idiosyncrasies of human behaviour and psychology (yours as well as your friend's). Sometimes you'll be left wondering why they haven't kept in touch and sometimes, you'll be the one giving someone else a sleepless night. Eventually, it becomes less about enjoying good times together and more about treading on eggshells.

It's pretty hilarious how our definition of 'friend' has watered down to something like 'Yeah we hang out together. Sometimes.' It's only the dictionary that seems to believe that a friend is 'a person with whom one has a bond of mutual affection'. I think, our friendships today have become trapped in the notion of being together, physically. The idea of friendships that survive the years, irrespective of distances and time is alien to us. And this is strange because technology actually makes it easier to sustain relationships. Instead, we use technology to reach out to more people and undermine older connections in pursuit of newer ones.

Recently, a study (http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2534950/We-demote-old-friends-new-ones-arrive-Research-finds-natural-limit-number-people-stay-touch-with.html) showed that when we make new friends, by starting a new job or going to university, we downgrade or even drop old ones. Who makes the cut and who doesn't? Friendship seems to have become a competitive sport and more often than not, I lack the energy to play it.

Change is beautiful.

From Pixabay (By PublicDomainPictures)

Relationships are not static. They are continuously being shaped by incidents, words, shared experiences and even seemingly unrelated events in the lives of the people involved. Given this dynamic, ever-evolving and ever-mutating nature of human connections, it would be silly to expect them to remain the same, even decades down the line. But does that mean we abandon the ones that matter or allow them to fall by the wayside, simply because they aren't what we started out with? No. We redefine them.

We may dislike the pre-attached notions and implications that come with labels but labels are inevitable. In your head, you have many different boxes, each with a label like 'Best friends', 'Close friends', 'Life partner', 'Acquaintances', 'Friends at work', 'Favourite cousins' and so on. And as we move through life, we keep populating these boxes. We do, however, have to be open to the possibility of subtracting from and adding to these boxes. We also have to be open to shifting some names from one box to another. Heck, we may even have to create new boxes altogether to accommodate connections that do not fall into any of the existing mental categories.

What I'm trying to say is, people don't have to grow apart. They just need to find new ways to fit into each other's lives. Because relationships matter. They provide joy, security, conversations, adventures and ideas. They help us find our place in the world. And with every closed/failed relationship, there is a memory deficit - a void that could have been avoided if the relationship had been allowed to change shape and accepted in its new form.

Every morning, we wake up as slightly altered versions of ourselves. We also wake up with subtle rearrangements of all the important relationships that we have chosen to cultivate. And that's a good thing. Has the nature of a friendship changed? Find new ways to bond, care and add value to each other's lives. Redefine yourself and your relationships as you go, because that's the only thing that will help you cope with changing circumstances and priorities. Do not sacrifice precious connections at the altar of marriage, job shifts, movement across cities or even countries. Allow them to breathe, transform and evolve. Redefine them everyday if you will, because that's the only way you'll save them.

The most messed-up generation ever?

Wikimedia Commons

We're such a messed-up generation. Addicted to our cell phones, going about our lives like dissatisfied robots and never entirely sure whether we're in love with our partners or not. In fact, we may just be the most messed-up generation ever. We don't lead pre-planned lives the way our forefathers did. We wake up everyday to the threat of a world war or the destruction of the planet due to climatic reasons. We don't know where our lives are headed and we are bombarded with so many options everyday that we can never be sure we've made the right choices. We talk to people we've never met; sometimes regularly and we're often not affiliated to any one culture, philosophy or way of life. We are more exposed to ideas, books, music, movies, people and places than ever before - so much that our lives don't make sense to us any more. We have more knowledge at our fingertips than we can handle; yet the answers to questions that truly matter, elude us. We express ourselves constantly; yet we feel there's no one to listen. We're constantly multitasking - on the phone while watching television, texting while reading, listening to music while walking. Our attention is never focussed; we are always fragmented, distracted and removed from the moment. We fear very little and the word 'duty' makes no sense to us. We are free - yet we are bound by our families with their expectations from a time we haven't known and a world that makes constant demands on our time. We want to be moral; yet our rationality permits us to understand immorality. We want to be good; yet material pursuits make monsters out of us. We have resources but we are clueless about how to use them best. We have ideas but we often lack the passion to follow them through. We have to struggle for nothing - and so, nothing means much to us. We live in a world where anything is possible if you have enough money for it. We live in a world where addictions court us every step of our lives. We live in a world where, as a Facebook meme said, free wifi is easier to get than water. We do not have the crutches of religion, marital compulsion, duty or pursuits of honour. The onus of lending meaning and purpose to our lives - it's entirely on us. And the path we choose to achieve that - the sky is the limit, there too. It's exhilarating and frightening at the same time. Because with so much at stake and so much in our hands, the responsibility for both success and failure lies entirely with us. We are a generation who cannot admire a beautiful sight without wanting to capture it for posterity and then sharing it with the world - all within seconds. We are a generation who cannot feel relevant without a virtual alter ego. We are a generation who can go days without speaking to our immediate families but cannot spend more than a few moments without Internet connectivity. We are a generation of contradictions and I have no idea how we are going to extricate ourselves out of this mess.

Self(ie)-analysis

Courtesy: Adam Rifkin (Attribution license)

You've done it. I've done it. We've all done it. So let's do away with the judgement and try and look at selfies as a tool for self-analysis.

The day may not be too far off when psychoanalysts ask their patients to take several selfies and then submit them for assessment.

Think about it. There are so many clues to one's personality in a selfie - the way you look at the camera, the kind of emotion you choose to portray - sensual, defiant, innocent, arrogant; the tilt of your head, the parting of your lips, the flare of your nostrils and the angle of your eyebrows.

Facial cues are not all there is to selfie-analysis. The clothes you decide to wear for this 'prescribed' photo shoot can speak volumes as well. Are they provocative or the kind that would draw minimal attention? The venue is another significant element. Do you click the selfie in a more private or a public setting?

Some of the behaviours and traits we might project through selfies are:

• Attention-seeking behaviour
• Self-esteem (high or low)
• Happiness quotient (width and exuberance of the smile)

I suppose psychotherapists could provide their patients with a few predetermined settings and scenarios for the selfies; or other specifications that might help them assess the images better. Armed with a background knowledge of the patient's issues, the selfies should reveal more to the therapist than they would to a lay person.


The only issue here is that the treatment might work better with women as they are in general, more prone to taking selfies. And they're usually better at it too. But with women, a lot of other factors would come into play - the fact that we are more used to being objectified and also more aware of the effect our appearance can have on people and situations.

Maybe, you could take a look at your selfies yourself and see if they tell you a story you haven't entirely been aware of. Do they show you a side of your personality you never knew existed? Or a tinge of unexplainable sadness or glee?

Selfies could actually be the doorway to a lot of personal insights that were hidden to us until the widespread use of phone cameras.

The drinking cesspool

Annie Mole (Licensed through Creative Commons)

It always begins the same way.

I have one (ten) drink too many, black out or fall asleep, wake up with a pounding headache and a general feeling of hatred (as opposed to the previous night's benevolence) towards humanity and spend the day ruing those last few (many) drinks and my predictable lack of good sense.

Then, I decide to go on a 'detox'. 'Never' is not something I'm brave enough to aim for even in my hangover-ridden state. So I opt for a week-long detox. Assume that this resolve is made on Monday morning.

Monday night. My will stands strong. I go home after work, without as much as a nod of acknowledgement to my favourite Old Monk.

Tuesday dawns, bright and guilt-free. When I get off from work, I find a mischievous thought straying into my mind - 'Just one beer', the thought says. 'One beer at Marine Drive would feel so good and hey, beer has less than five per cent alcohol!' But I ask the thought to go take its wily suggestions elsewhere. I go home once again, alcohol-free. I'm so proud I feel like I've contributed to saving humanity (and maybe I have, considering the things I'm capable of doing when drunk).

Ah, Wednesday. Now that's a tricky day. Because I get off from work early. And that usually means a movie or drinks and dinner with a friend. The evening loses considerable sheen without coke and rum to look forward to.

6 PM. The moment of decision looms nearer and nearer. That stray thought has now multiplied by a million. And all of them have only one thing to say - 'One drink won't hurt!'. My friend compounds matters by slyly suggesting a beer. He knows that's my weakness. One beer. Because of the five per cent alcohol escape clause. And because it lasts longer than a drink.

There is a moment - one moment - when the situation can go either way and then I collapse on the wrong side of the cliff. I give in. That sip of beer goes in - cold, flavourful and oh so satisfying. And I forget about that Sunday night. I forget about my resolve. None of it makes sense. Except the fact that beer by the sea, with a friend in tow is one of the best small pleasures that life has to offer.

Sigh. And that's how it ends. Every damn time.

My resolve never did stand a chance before the lure of light-headed, carefree happiness, otherwise known as alcohol.

It's better that we don't talk about the days following Wednesdays because I'm sure you can guess what happens. One beer turns into two and sometimes joins hands with chocolatey Old Monk. And every successive drink pushes my moral resolve a little further to the door, until it's out altogether. I watch my resolve sigh resignedly and wave me a forlorn goodbye, while I sip away like there's no tomorrow.

By the way, if you're reading this today, it's Tuesday now. So you know what stage I'm at. That's right. No drinking this week. I swear!

Thank you.

Courtesy: Ankita Shreeram

The other day, mom brought a book on gratitude from our local library. The author suggested starting every day by expressing gratitude for everything that's good in your life. I ran through the list mentally and thought I'd be done within seconds. :P But then, when I actually sat down to do the exercise, something magical and heartbreaking happened. The list was endless. I began with myself and then the things and people that populated my life. Then I realised it didn't end there. I had to include all the films I had seen, all the songs I had heard, all the books I had read, all the paintings I had set my eyes upon, all the trees whose breeze I had been cooled by, all the birds I had waved at in the sky. What's more, I even had to include the films I would see, the songs I would hear, the books I would read and the paintings I would gaze at, in future. There was no limit to the things I could be thankful for. And the bounty was more than I could bear. We don't really understand how blessed we are until we start measuring our wealth and our happiness by experiences rather than possessions. Because when it comes to the experience of the sea or the sun, the beggar on the street is as blessed as the CEO in his ivory tower. And I imagine, if we really could recall glimpses from our past lives, we'd recall faces and smiles and sensations; rather than the expensive cars we owned or the couches we sat on. How silly it is to even entertain thoughts of poverty or inadequacy when we have all these senses, capable of absorbing so much beauty. And how silly it is to be scared or to ever allow yourself to be miserable when the next smile is only a sunset or an embrace away.

The seconds turned into minutes and the minutes walked past, but I remained seated there in my veranda, cross-legged and teary-eyed, while dawn smiled indulgently, caressing my skin with her sun-warmed finger tips. If you're reading this, I suggest you perform the gratitude exercise too. You might be surprised with how much there is, to be thankful for. And then you feel so wealthy, so full and so gifted that you wonder how your frail human body will be able to bear it. Unimaginable that the whole world should be at your feet; that an ocean of books and music and dance should await your eyes and ears. Unimaginable that within this one tiny life, there is so much to be lived. Unimaginable that we still have words like 'boredom' in the dictionary. 

Worms and demon.

 

Courtesy: Ark (Licensed under Creative Commons)

Worms.

 

Deep drags of air..

Peace settles in.

Doubts like worms

Crawl deep inside

Make way for serenity

Temporarily.

Worms will fester

Beg for food

But you must be unkind.

You must let them starve

Wither away

Turn to ashes

Forgettable dust

To be blown away one day

By a puff of certainty.

***

Demon.

 

There's a demon in me
And he loves to caress unsuspecting strangers
Stretching out his claws, scouring for blood
And if he finds it, he wants more
And then I know
I'm done for
And so is the unsuspecting stranger
And so they all run away from me
Screaming for their precious lives
While the demon and I
We sigh
In unison
Lonely forever
But together in our bloodthirst
Sometimes he goes to sleep
For a day or two
Or even weeks or months
And then I manage to lure a stranger into my life
I manage to be familiar with someone for once
And then the demon awakens
As I'd always known he would
And again he runs
Again I scream for him to stay
But the only one who stays
Is my demon.

Come clean.

Courtesy: Sunshinecity (Licensed under Creative Commons)

Come clean,

Because those twinges of guilt

Will poke you in places

You didn't know existed

And then colour your dreams

In shades you'd have never chosen

They will invade sentences

Pushed back from the tip of your tongue

At the very last moment

Panic

Will come too close for comfort

Caress you with icy finger-tips

While you plaster on a fake, brave smile

Regret

Will come chasing

Even as you try to outrun it

On legs already tired

By countless deceptions

Come clean,

Because the mirror will tell you stories

You don't want to see

Random words will show you insights

You don't want to hear

Your heart will sear

Doubts will knock on your door

The sound echoing

In the corridors of your wrinkly sleep

Jumpy

Edgy

Confused

You will be a ghost

Of the self you used to be

Come clean,

Or you may wait

Until the fruits of all those lies

Are too sour to eat.

Morning bloom.

Pic: Ankita Shreeram

The sky unflowers

From ink to light

Stretches lazily, and sneezes

Sending the clouds a f l u t t e r

They dot the sky

In different directions, patterns

Each seeking -

A different vagabond destiny.

The trees stay aloof

By now, immune

To the charms of the waking sky

Until one is teased by a passing bird

And giggles,

Sending whispers of cool wind

Into drowsy windows.

The wind sneaks

Into sleep-soft skin and puffy eyes,

Curled up bodies and slumbering blankets,

Until the whole world unflowers

To join hands with the morning sky.

The trees have ears.

Amaan and Ayaan Ali Khan at Kala Ghoda Arts Festival, 2014 (By Ankita Shreeram)

The trees have ears too. They grow attentive, when there's something magical in the air. Like the sound of the sarod. And the tabla keeping pace with it. And the cheers of an adoring audience. Some of whom are hearing these instruments for the first time. And some for the millionth. For some, it's the first time their soul has been touched this lovingly. For others, it's like coming home. But for all, it's something more sublime than the everyday living experience. Something that transcends daily trivialities and makes that moment the only one that matters. Something that makes the hair on their arms stand to attention (perhaps they have ears too) and the moisture collect in their eyes in a way that's neither happy nor sad. What the moisture does is to make you feel connected to your own life force. Most times, I feel like I'm leading a stranger's life - performing actions on autopilot while my true essence lies restlessly elsewhere. But back there on the steps of Asiatic Library, with Amaan and Ayaan Ali Khan performing for me in flesh and blood, I didn't feel that way. My fingers strummed the air as though they'd always been familiar with the movement of the sarod. It seems almost impossible to believe that this music did not always exist. That someone actually crafted the instrument and divined the ragas. Because why else would my body, mind and soul recognise and sway along with it as though re-igniting a friendship forged through the ages? The trees maintained an unearthly stillness, even in the cajoling breeze. Even the light of the setting sun seemed muted, as though paying homage to the magnificence of the sarod and the tabla. And I felt timeless. Ageless. Care-less. For once, everything made sense. Everything was perfect. Nothing was amiss. The ever nagging doubts and fears at the back of my mind lay subdued. And nothing could have convinced me that the feeling wouldn't last. I'm convinced afresh now as I write, with Amjad Ali Khan infusing magic into my ears. What is time after all but the space between two strums of a sarod or a sitar? Eternity lives on, in the endless alchemy of a single note of music.

A case for routine.

Courtesy: QuotesEverlasting (licensed under Creative Commons)

Call me boring but I like routine. I like stability. I thrive on seeing the same faces and hearing the same well-loved voices everyday. My favourite sliver of the sea and my standard order at the cafe I've always cherished - they bring me peace. They bring me comfort and a smile that never lets me down.

I like waking up in the morning, knowing exactly what I can look forward to; the familiar streets that I will tread on and the well-memorised routes I will take to reach my destination. The assurance of having a job and a home waiting for me everyday; of a life I have created consciously (with a little help from others, and lady luck) - they help me sleep at night. They make me express gratitude every morning when I wake up, to the ray of sunshine that filters into the room with precisely the same slant everyday.

I like the hypnotic lull of my similar days; the way I can sink into them without a care. I like how I can float along on their security, while my mind explores uncharted territories. Because if both my body and my mind are cast adrift - I will be too lost. I will be too busy trying to forge a new way to enjoy the strangeness and the newness. Adventure should come in the right doses; like surprise shots of tequila. Too much of it and you may not be entirely sure of who you are - when you look into the mirror.

I feel the need to speak up for monotony because too much is made of excitement, wildness and free-spiritedness. And too little is made of the charm of things one can rely upon to lift one's spirits. Yes, nothing lasts forever, and that's all the more reason to value and nurture the people and experiences we do have access to. Waking up in a different place every day of your life will eventually tire your spirit. Because you need time for things to sink in deep. You need time for love to grow on you. You need time, for things to mean something to you.

I like being anchored because there's only so much change one's spirit can take; only so many spins one can regain balance from. I like it because only then do foreign shores seem truly alluring. Only then do alien lives and sights and sounds excite me with their intoxicating unfamiliarity. I like it because intoxication is good only in short bursts - make it perennial and your mind will ail.

I like routine because without it, travelling wouldn't seem as magical as it does on those rare moments that I'm able to get away and take a few greedy sips from the sea of adventure. I like it because only then do I appreciate the times when life takes an unpredictable turn; when a chance occurrence brings me face-to-face with sweet chaos.

I like routine because this life is not that long and I'd rather see a face I love every single day than a million faces that I might never learn to love. 

By the wayside

Courtesy: Afiler (Licensed under Creative Commons)

 The wayside was littered with dreams I'd once dreamt
And with versions of myself that I'd hoped to be
"What is this place?" I asked the listening air
"It's the place you've all along refused to see."

It was the place of lives un-lived & desires un-done
Of people I'd never met & parties I'd never gone to
Of friends I'd never made & sentences I'd never said
Of poems I'd never written & feelings I'd suppressed.

Their only raison d'etre was to be trapped in my memory
Or rather in the cobwebby corridors of my unwritten history
"This place needs a good sweep," my invisible friend said
The one I thought I'd left behind in the veranda of my childhood
But dusk came by & I remained standing in the company of what wasn't meant to be
I remained mesmerised by the thought of setting them free.

From a shadow's desk

Courtesy: Dvs (licensed under Creative Commons)

You go to the beach. So do I. Glad for the sunshine. Unlike you, I die everyday. Sometimes more than once a day. Rebirth isn't painful though. It's almost inconspicuous. Wherever you go, I follow. When you pause, I look up at you, wondering if you notice that I'm there. I marvel at the detailing in your face and wish I had that too. It's lonely out here on the ground. When you were a child, you'd talk to me, play with me. We were friends. What changed? Why has adulthood changed you so? Sometimes I wonder if I'll get to be a real person once you die. Yes, your death will be my liberation. But I can never transcend this lifetime until then -reborn though I am every time the sun peeps out. Sometimes I cross paths with my non-human cousins. The dark selves of trees and animals. And even inanimate objects. We exchange the strangest of stories. A tree's shadow told me of a child who outlined the entire shape and then coloured it with crayons, making her feel almost like a real tree. Almost as good and worthy. I wish that might happen to me too. A little colour would be nice. Do you know, sometimes when you sleep, I defy the laws of science and dance across the walls like a drunken loon. Once, you were about to wake up while I was doing that. I nearly died (for real I mean) that day. Imagine walking into the sun and finding no shadow self to tail you and keep you company. Imagine if I wasn't there. Maybe you'd notice me then.

Rosemary

Dave Nakayama (licensed under Creative Commons)

Macaroni never tasted this good when Agatha made it herself. The recipe was the same - no rocket science after all. But there had to be something that maami (that's what she called her nanny) did differently. Agatha thought about it as she savoured the rich smell and softness of the cheese. Perhaps it was voodoo. Maami looked quite formidable after all - her skin wrinkly and her eyes narrow, rather like a witch. Agatha giggled at the idea. Maybe maami muttered spells under her breath as the macaroni rotated in the oven. Or perhaps, there was a magic herb she added to the sauce. "There's nothing magical about it," Maami said, stirring ferociously in the chilly winter noon. "It's called rosemary and that's what adds the flavour to my macaroni." "What does it look like?" Agatha asked. "And does it have anything to do with roses or someone called Mary?" Maami laughed, the ladle pausing to shake along with her merriment. "Rosemary means 'dew of the sea' in Latin." She cocked her head to look at Agatha. "People used to believe it could ward off witches." The young girl gasped. "Did you just read my thoughts, maami?" "Why, what were you thinking?" Agatha considered. If maami already knew, this was just a trick question. She decided to go with the truth. Even if maami was a witch, she wouldn't hurt her, Agatha was certain. "I was wondering if you might be a witch." The soup had now reached a boil. "Well if I was, the rosemary wouldn't let me stay here, would it?" That did make sense. Satisfied, Agatha went back to her macaroni while Maami shook her bemused head.

Best two hours of 2013?

Anoushka Shankar: Wikimedia Commons

Often when I put pen to paper, it’s because I feel like visiting someplace new; or revisiting a particularly charming place. Today, I want to revisit the two hours I spent in Anoushka Shankar’s company, albeit two floors apart.

She sat there, graceful as a lotus, the sitar nestled in her able hands. And she might have been strumming the strings of our hearts, for all we knew. Because every sonorous twang felt like the resonance of a suppressed memory. When she played, I was no longer Ankita Shreeram, writer and resident of Bombay. I was just a throbbing being, kept alive and sculpted by the notes that danced around and into me. What is so intoxicating about losing all sense of identity? What is so right about not being who you are but just a bundle of uniquely-hued energy?

Her ‘voice of the moon’ might have made me cry but my soul was too busy celebrating. Perhaps it felt like it was finally receiving some attention – a rare treat – because all other times, I only fed my thoughts and my base senses.

To her right, there were the cross-legged, sedate shehnai (trumpet) and mridangam (South Indian percussion instrument) players. And to her left, was the Italian percussionist, the cello player with his hair tied back in a sleek bun and the slender African singer Ayana, whose luxurious voice made me weep to hear Norah Jones (sweet but not Ayana) in the original recordings. Western and Indian classical instruments came together in a joyous union that rode high upon choice Carnatic ragas.

Four days ago, it had been her father’s death anniversary. It had also been the date when the Delhi gang rape happened in 2012. “I poured all my darkness into this song – ‘In Jyoti’s name’,” Anoushka told us. It should have been ample warning of what was to come. But I was still deeply shaken and disturbed by the urgent, pained notes that ensued. It was just what it should have been but I couldn’t wait for it to stop.

But the other tracks from ‘Traces of you’ (her new album) – Metamorphosis and Lasya among them, helped me recover. But that would be unjust, because they did more than that. They inspired, soothed and uplifted. They made me feel truly blessed to be alive; to be there in that hall for those two glorious hours, and have the fortune of listening to such masterful melodies. This is living – my heart told me. And I believed it, choosing to forget for that moment the monotony that greets me every other day. But that’s not really true, is it? To breathe and to exist – in synchronicity with the Universe, is a blessing far too great to be clothed in the grey rags of monotony. Now when I revisit that beautiful place, I believe my heart’s whispers again. I believe that I am happy. And there was never any reason to be otherwise.

When the concert ended, with dazzling individual pieces by each of the supporting musicians, I was convinced that those had been the best two hours of 2013. But of course, it’s easy to be overwhelmed in the immediate aftermath of things. Now that the sheen has been dimmed by the unforgiving dust of time, I wonder if there might be other contenders for that title. It has been a pretty good year after all.

The three kinds of talk

Wikimedia Commons

The other day, while trying to explain my introversion to a friend, I realised that there are three kinds of talk:

1. Social talk
2. Routine talk
3. Real talk

Social talk is the endless jibber jabber most of us engage in everyday. It is the conversation that flows at parties and large dinners. It is a life-saver when you meet someone new and if you are no good at it, well, you'll end up hemming and hawing your way through awkward 10-second encounters, the way I usually do.

Not all social talk is shallow, though I wish that were true. It is the art of presenting one's knowledge in topics of mass interest - such as films, television, fashion, music and food - in the most entertaining way possible. I have found that sadly, literature is rarely a topic of mass interest. Nor is analysis about why we think the way we do and the mysteries of the universe. Little wonder that social talk is far from my area of expertise.

But if you can master this art to the extent that it comes naturally to you, (most often this process takes place as we grow up but some of us manage to get through it without much socialising and pay for the omission later) then you are guaranteed help from folks whenever you need it, and usually, success at a faster pace than the the ones who aren't adept at it.

Routine talk is what we practise with family and the people we live with. How was your day? What shall we have for dinner? When will you reach home? Is your cold better? You get the drill. Far from being boring, routine talk is a great source of comfort for most of us. When it comes to people we love, the mere exchange of words is a pleasure - even if those words are nothing monumental.

Now in the digital age, a strange phenomenon is taking place. Routine talk is being exchanged with complete strangers thanks to chat and messaging services. But as long as it serves the same purpose - that of reassuring you, making you feel that the mundane details of your life matter and you are not all alone, I think it's absolutely fine.

But real talk is where the magic of communication resides. These are the long, heart-to-heart conversations one recalls even years down the line. Real talk heals, inspires and rejuvenates. And it is with only a select few that we can indulge in them. I would put any conversation with some 'substance' in the realm of real talk. And I believe this is indispensable for one's happiness. One can survive without social and routine talk but real talk? That's non-negotiable. And cultivating relationships with people with whom we can enjoy this privilege, is an effort one has to be willing to make (note to self).

One observation that came up in my conversation with the aforementioned friend is that a lot of talk does not make one an extrovert. If most of your talk consists of social prattle, then you may be as closed up as an introvert who barely speaks. True extroverts are those who feel comfortable sharing intimate details of their life with all their friends. Then again, may be the definition of 'extrovert' is broader than that.

In conclusion, the things we say are a disorderly combination of the consequential and the inconsequential. Too much of the former and you're broody. Too much of the latter and you're shallow. Just the right balance of both - and you're the friend who's always in demand. Me? I'm happy with my pointless theorizing. :P

10 - The girl who died next door

Wikimedia Commons

Death. It comes in myriad ways but the one distinction between all these ways is the pace and it’s corollary - suffering. The nature of death is defined by whether it is gradual or sudden; whether it comes in bursts of suffering or one swift stroke. Death from burning – long and torturous; but death from a fatal bullet wound – instant and merciful. If I ever had to murder someone, I’d go the merciful way. To spare myself the torture of watching of course. Why should another person’s pain bother me if I can’t feel it? Compassion, most of the times, is feigned. Feigned until people are convinced they truly feel another’s feelings – an absolutely illogical and fanciful notion. Compassion traverses the blind area between imagination and reality.

Of course, all this conjecture about death applies only to the living. Suvarna’s death on Shayan’s canvas was another matter altogether.

I spent my days on tenterhooks ever since the day I’d seen Shayan in pieces over (dead) Suvarna’s aging. I kept waiting for the day when it would all be over and I was never certain if it was happiness I felt – or fear. Perhaps I’d always had an inkling that it wouldn’t be pretty when Suvarna’s spectre followed the footsteps of her physical self. I was driven crazier by the fact that I could confide in no one. I took to recording my exchanges with Shayan on a private blog I called ‘The girl who wouldn’t stay dead’. On days when I’d had too much wine, the title would crack me up and I’d giggle every now and then, while I typed macabre words.

Monsoon had made way for the suffocating warmth that was the city’s sorry excuse for autumn. I’d have to add that to my bucket list – experience autumn in its faded mahogany emptiness. While I was musing aimlessly thus, I heard a deafening crash from the house next door. It sounded like a cupboard, or something of that size and heaviness had toppled over. And then there was silence. Unadulterated silence. No screams of pain, no shouts for help. No excuses to offer for my immediate panic and compulsion to check on Shayan.

His apartment was filled with smoke and the acrid smell of it. The man had turned into a monstrous smoker. The haze made it difficult to see and for a few moments, I blundered forward blindly; my eyes watering. Then I saw him. Slumped on the floor, sobbing, while his beloved easel lay on the floor, the palettes of colour leaking into the tiled flooring.  I allowed myself to dwell over the strangely beautiful sight of different colours forging their individual paths and tributaries on that pale white expanse. Then I pulled myself back to the pitiful figure in front of me. What aspect of that was capable of charming a woman? Nothing at all. And yet there I was, a repulsive mass of unbidden concern. “You stink.” He looked up, tear-stained face and all. “It’s over,” he whispered, so low that I had to read his cracked lips. “Finally.” He didn’t seem to have heard me. “I have no reason to live any more. All I want is to die.” And he collapsed into wracking sobs on the last word. This was insane. With a sudden burst of righteous anger, I grabbed Shayan’s largest painting brush off the floor and tore through his last painting with its pointed end. Shayan may have screamed but I did not hear him. The torn canvas gave me the rush I imagined murderers felt when they severed veins. I drove the brush through every painting I could lay my eyes on. I hacked through her doe eyes, her luscious lips and her lustrous hair. I drove It through her very soul and I found mine rejoicing.

And then I felt, rather than heard him rise off the floor. With a flash of warning from my primitive sense of self-preservation, I spun around and caught his arm before he could bang my head with the heavy painting he held in his hands. “What have you done, you bitch?” he raged. “How could you kill her like that?” “I didn’t kill her!” I shouted back. “She was already dead! A simple fact you could never fathom!” and then I was rushing out of his apartment, away from him; away from his sapping insanity.

I moved out of my apartment that very night. Since several months, it had brought me no peace. And now I was in desperate need of some.

You might ask why I’d been so obsessed with Shayan that entire while. Why had I allowed his madness to impact my perfectly normal life? Why hadn’t I just let him die in that apartment, which I had anyway eventually done? I don’t have an answer to that question. Any more than I have an answer to why Suvarna insisted on extending her sorry life on paper. All I can say is – there are some impulses none of us are powerful enough to ignore; whatever may be the consequences. Or perhaps – because of the possible consequences. For every dark turn that my relationship with Shayan took, there has been an alternative turn glimmering in the corridors of hope. My subliminal hope.

(Concluded)

Memoirs of innocent artifice

Pic: Ankita Shreeram

From a dusty drawer, the ghost of a scared child peeps

From another, a stoic teenager

The child has scrawled a Wordsworth quote

Sitting pretty on feigned adulthood's moat

Heartfelt essays now bear the dust of lies

Of a pretence in half-hearted disguise

Memoirs of innocent artifice

In a blue jewelled box, a seashell lurks

A piece of joy, locked away for posterity

Un-caged, the memory flies

Loosening its grip on a heart that sighs

For all its inhabitants, condemned to be temporary

Time has left arrogant stains on the creatures of my past

Kept alive like bloodless vampires

Staring at me dolefully

Why have I not spared a single thought for them in all these years?

Never held them to my bosom

Or fed them with my lusty tears?

Erasers, mechanical pencils, dog-eared notebooks and glittering cards

A child's possessions

But childhood is no more than a fleeting memory

Devoid of sensation, of smell, of touch or sound

Childhood would be a fancy bed-time story

If not for these accusing diaries - hard-bound

I save some from the ogling bin

But none of them matters to me

Not really

Nothing feels real except the chiming of the clock

And sometimes, not even that

Some relics I wrestle with, like this delegate card

My hand hovers, and is pulled back by my pleading, bleeding heart

Like a husband held back by an emotional wife

The husband succumbs, the card returns

To the Pandora's box that is my nostalgia.

Listen to something someone recommended.

Listen to something someone recommended. Imagine the way the beats and synapses flowed over their senses and teased their limbs into unconscious movement. Dance imperceptibly, and wonder if they did the same. Smile at the sudden, soft notes, and wonder if they were enraptured by the very same ones.

Listen to the singer's voice, the secret lyrics and wonder if they were meant just for you - a coded message from the one who recommended the song. Drink deep from the fountain of words and marvel at how they've been redefined by the music they are set to. Catch yourself blushing at certain phrases and look around quickly to ensure no one's watching. Find the song suddenly playing in your head when you're at the entrance of your train, wondering what to have for dinner. Allow the music to intrude, when you're at a pressing meeting at work or when you're strolling past the chana-wala at the turn of the street. Welcome the song with open arms when you're lying in bed, weary from the day's travails and disappointments. Along with the song, will come thoughts of the one who recommended it. Listen to the imagined ghosts of their sighs, even as the singer croons.

Feel your heart skip a beat in those initial few strains of music, before the vocals burst upon you like an expected, yet sudden shower. Watch your skin break out in goosebumps when the singer travels territories you never even knew existed. Walk in those unexplored realms with the one who recommended the song. Notice the words and the music mutating every time you listen to it, like a living, breathing creature. Like a shared force between you and that person. A sinuous thread of magic, wavering in the wind, changing colours and sparkling every time either of you smiles.

Everyone I know.

Ancestral voices by Firsov Kubla (from Wikimedia Commons)

everyone i know,

wants to tell me who i am.

everyone i know,

points at pinpricks of darkness and light

within me.

as if i didn't know they were there.

everyone i know,

tries to make sense of me

find the key to messy mystery

draw a map of my psychic history

trace the origins of my insanity.

everyone i know,

pokes and prods with sadistic glee

my squirms are their sorry victory.

everyone i know,

insists on reminding me

on rare times when the sunshine pokes through

that i am porous

and i will never retain the warmth long enough

to recover completely

to regain wholly

what i was once born with.

everyone i know,

revels in chiding me

that i know nothing of real pain

that my woes are but contrived

children of a needlessly cynical mother.

everyone i know,

is a voice of annoying wisdom

a speaker of irrefutable reason

a paragon of what i should be.

everyone i really know

is just another part of me.

One quarter please.

Courtesy: Ankita Shreeram

If I asked you to describe yourself first thing in the morning, before anything had befallen you, you'd still do it without skipping a beat. You'd probably give me the same answer every single morning. Perhaps you'd say "I'm a friendly, amiable person who likes going out and meeting new people. I like black and I love jazz. I like to dress comfortably and my favourite travel destination is Ibiza. My idea of a holiday is to relax on the beach with a beer by my side." In this vein, you could probably go on until I asked you to stop.

On the eve of my 24th birthday, I ask, what makes us such great authorities on who we are? Is there any law that stipulates that one's likes and dislikes must remain constant all through one's life? Why do we wake up every dawn with the burden of our memories - with voices of a dead past telling us who we are, what to do and what to wear? I don't want to get into a relationship because memory tells me that I have difficulty communicating and sharing my life beyond a point. Memory tells me that true intimacy scares the living daylights out of me. But what if I chose to discount all of that and make a decision based on instinct alone? Instinct comes from the heart, perhaps even a primitive knowledge of the soul. It does not come from colourless knowledge of facts that have long since breathed their last.

Memory is grossly overrated in our nostalgic, reflective times. We go over events and statements with a mental microscope like detectives seeking clues to an unsolved mystery. We ignore the present and choose to stay cloaked in a secret world built upon the pillars of things we've seen, heard, smelt, touched and experienced already. Sometimes, we shake off the cloak to find more fodder for this world. But we always go back. Always.

On 13th September, I shall celebrate Independence Day. Independence from the shackles of my own memory; from that strange soulless identity that tries to teach me what my fabric is made of. My fabric is a mutating, magical thing. It never remains constant and it is certainly no slave to yesterday's events. My fabric can be sewn into a different pattern every single moment of my life. And I can change the colour of the threads with a single thought; with the simple flick of a switch called intent.

I am completing nearly a quarter of the century that most humans these days seem to live and I'm still bound by memories of childhood, of innocent fears and baseless reservations. Hiding in a dark corner is a scared little girl who refuses to leave the safe confines of my head. This birthday, I must release her. I must let her walk away into the sunset of my past. While I stride forth into the sparkling future. Adulthood, unlike memory, is sadly underrated. Adulthood is confidence, freedom and the sensibility to absorb and appreciate art. Adulthood is indeed a doorway into everything that's miraculous and beautiful. 

Monsoon goddess

Courtesy: Ankita Shreeram

The sky peers at us

Through half-closed eyes

Irises a soothing silver-tinged gray

A gaze that wills us to believe

In the charm of a glow-less day

Darkening canopy of cloudless firmament

Somehow muting the downward sounds

Causing us to move with somnambulant ease

Slowing our heart-beats

And the pace of our ever-rushing feet

Birds – oblivious

Trees – felicitous

And humans? Humans – ignorant

To the warning of imminent storm

The sky is a crystal ball

But we choose not to see

Our innate clairvoyance submerged

Under layers of careless thought

Spotted aloe plants look on stoically

As sheets of rain dance violently

On tar roads and peeling windows

On bald heads and rusted, tin roofs

With every step, she seizes a little memento

No, the rain never returns empty-handed

She will scrape away tiny bits of you

But she will also leave behind

A precious whit of her own soul

A fair barter, in her swirling eyes

Sometimes, she comes wearing bangles

Their raucous jingle jangle

A worthy accompaniment to her primitive music

She is both musician and dancer

Both puppeteer and puppet

Some babies press their noses

To misted windows in glee

While others scream in terror

Pressing against their mothers’ breasts instead

Some would like to pirouette along with her

On diamond-strewn streets

Others wish murderously

For the music to be silenced forever

Today she dances a tribal dance

Her movements feverish

Her music unsettling

But yesterday, she performed a measured Kathak

Her lashings graceful

The thunderous rumblings almost poetic

She is a woman of many unpredictable moods

But I am swept away by every single one

For I am her daughter,

Nestled in her bosom when I was born

On a glorious monsoon morning in September

The city plump with its fill of rain

Belly positively bursting with stormy goodness

I drank from that fountain as a babe

I drink from it still and guess what?

It still tastes the same.