Relevance

I often think about it when it rains. It has not rained in a long time and I have not thought about it in thousand rains bygone. I have been too busy living my life and then a few words from 'Where the mind is without fear...'  paused me momentarily and forced me to write. After a long time I am tapping away thinking about what could be. When it rains and droplets cumulate on top of that leaf we all live underneath. that leaf we all draw shelter and existence from. It is remarkable how that one leaf tries its hardest best to hold on to those drops. We watch. I watch, you watch, we all watch. hoping drops would never drop. And then comes a moment when it becomes too much for that leaf to hold on to. the first one rolls off its surface. The very first drop. Our leaf- no longer able to hold it, no longer able to shield us -  lets the drop drop. One drop falling from over us, hurtling down fast and then faster. Pulled down by the gravity and let gone by our leaf swirls and lands on us. That one drop. we don't even feel it. But that is where our world changes. That is where floodgates open. Second one follows then the third and obviously fourth, fifth, sixth and so on. it appears as if our leaf is crying. For it is no longer able to hold on. No longer able to shield us and all of it rains. by the time we look up, we are helpless and drenched. Our leaf burdened by all those drops it had held for all those times is wilting. We look up and it looks back at us. One last time before it gives up and is blown away. That is when I think about it and look around. and I notice you are thinking too and so is everyone else. Thinking of what could have been? What if we held on to those drops? what if we held on to our leaf and not let drops accumulate? While I was too busy looking at my own feet and you at yours our leaves kept holding on, head held high. Never shed a drop. But it had to give in if we did not look up. And give in it did. 

Words from 'Where the mind is without fear...' keeps coming back to me. To my thoughts. Thoughts of a utopian world that humanity always craves for, has craved for. Forever. That craving stays. We never got there, probably never will. We get a whiff at times, sensing utopia in our common perceived dystopia. That is the closest humanity has ever gotten to the so called 'Utopia'. But there is a ray of hope. There is light. It has gotten too dark these days. So much so that a glimmer would speak for thousand suns.  That is where I have hope. If a ray could break through, thousands would follow and then a thousand more. We must let in a ray. We must let drops dry. We must look up and let not our leaves cry. It is raining again. I can hear drops cumulating. I must not look at my feet. I must look up. I must look for that ray. All those drops, they must dry. I need but just one ray. A glimmer and a thousand would follow and then a thousand more. And then there will be a world where the mind would be without a fear...

Miss Dinihan's Marigold Madeleine

It was not a very big town where I was born. Not small either. But all the marigold plantations scattered around made it look like a 18th century pre-industrial revolution scape. Hence, giving it a feel of small town which had all the essentials of a big one. Anyway, back to my life's story. Actually I was not even born there. Just conceived. Conceived on, ironically, one of the numerous marigold plantations. Owned by Madeleine's dad and her old grandmother. Madeleine's mummy, sadly, left us even before I was properly born. Thanks god Madeleine had all the marigolds to her after she was gone. She loved them, running happily amongst them, touching as many, getting lost in their colors and bloom. Marigolds, all of them in all their colors, loved her too. Bright yellow ones, burning red, fading orange, sundust colored mauve - all sort of colors those came in. My favorite- sundust colored mauve. It amazes me how gods, rain, time sun and dust worked together to create such a magical color. I had never seen anything like that before and time would tell that never ever would I, through my many travels alongside miss Dinihan.

Oh!talking about these marigolds is such a distraction. So I was telling you about how I was born. My mother was a mystical animal, they say. She would often come down from the jungle to Madeleine's marigold farm. She did not like humans but she was always kind to Madeleine and baby Madeleine was so fond of her. Every day at the dusk,right before the moonrise and before my mother would head back, she would shed a part of her and Madeleine would keep it. I don't know how long it went for before my mother stopped coming down to the marigold farms altogether. But lil Madeleine who was growing into a fine woman still kept her treasure. That is before her old grandmother and father chanced upon it. They were poor farmers and had hit a jackpot when they found my mother's sheddings. One fine morning Madeleine's father bargained for Madeleine's treasure in return for a few sea shells. And thus began my journey to Targe. Targe was a town 50 miles up the road, across the woods. Named after a kind of shield called 'Targe', used in medieval times. the word is late old English, deriving from the old Franconian shield. People in Targe still make that shield, lots of it, hence the name. They also have lots of tanneries. Targe is all about shield crafting, leather tanning and drinking. That is where Madeleine's dad took my mother's shedding, to one of the tanneries. And I was born.

When I came out of their works, I saw myself in the mirror. I was very much curvaceous, just like Madeleine's mother from the marigold farms. But she was white and I had this beautiful soft, mahogany wood colored tan that just glowed. I was very pleased with how I looked. then began my journey. Journey out of beautiful marigold fields, crowded Targe and into this wide world. I had never sailed before. Packed in a water-proof bag, I sailed for days and weeks before I reached a distant land where many people lived. More than Madeleine or I could have ever imagined existed. I marvelled at the sight that lay in front of me. Crowd, noise, people, music, pace, rush - everything was new to me. I was already missing Madeleine, marigolds and the farm. Hell, even Targe was much better. My journey continued.they unloaded me from the ship and transported me in a four-wheel driven carriage. I peeped outta carriage's window to say hello to the horses. Surprise,surprise! No horses drawing that carriage. How is that even possible, a carriage moving on its own? I was baffled. I slept throughout rest of my journey. I woke up to my new home - a glass covered window. I could look at the entire world and they could look at me from the outside. That was the idea. this would not be my home forever. I saw many other window mates being packed away to new places. I waited my turn. I just hoped my new friend would be as nice as Madeleine. I knew I would never see Madeleine again. She was far far away! In the lands of sundust colored mauve marigolds and horse drawn carriages.

Then one fine day in came Miss Dinihan. I had not met her before but she reminded me of Madeleine. She was nice, gentle and very caring. She had the most beautiful pair of eyes I had seen and they were kind. I already liked her and peeped anxiously hoping to draw her attention. It worked. after looking at so many other things, she finally settled on me. I was happy again. I knew good things were waiting for me.

I must tell you how I got my name. I was on my way to Miss Dinihan's house. She told me some amazing things. She told me how there were only seven Dinihan's in this world because one of her ancestors misspelt his last name. Funny! How do you misspell your own last name. She also told me how they don't need horses in this part of the world to draw these carriages. They have something called an 'engine' that propels it. I told her my story - the story that had Madeleine, marigolds, Targe and horse drawn carriages. She loved it so much so that she named me after them - Marigold Madeleine. Thus began my journey as Miss Dinihan's Marigold Madeleine. A journey that will see many more lands across the time span and tell many more stories. Through my journeys I hope to, some day, visit my old land. I would love for Miss Dinihan to meet Madeleine, her father and see all those marigolds.

Madeleine must have grown finer and flowers would still be retaining their beautiful colors I am sure. I am waiting to see the surprise on miss Dinihan's face when she sees those marigolds-specially the sundust colored mauve ones. She never believed me when I told her those existed. And then there is Madeleine's old grandmother. I just hope she is still alive. Oh!I just live in hope with dreamy eyes. Of all the travels and stories to come.

Zoya

Where do I begin? It has got to be that ride from across the bridge. But I guess it takes more than that. Way too more. A short trip does not mean you will find a Zoya in certain Zoe Gallagher Avery. I mean that sort of thing just does not happen.

I really found Zoya was when I first looked into her eyes. I just did not have a clue that a pair of eyes like that existed. I have looked into many eyes in my life. I have seen ocean blue. I have seen emerald green. Talking of green, I remember once seeing small leaf fig green. That is just blue and green I have talked of so far. There is more I have seen. So many more colors, so many pairs of eyes. I have also looked into eyes that were fading brown, glazed crystal gray, dark brown and the intense black. Some beautiful, some exotic and some extraordinary. But none of that could ever match what the eyes of Zoya had. That symphony of notes, that subdued glaze of mellow and that vibrance of life. I had never ever seen all of that in one place. Those eyes. Looking at everything, yet so distant. Drawing you in, yet so aloof. I knew it then. Zoya was way beyond what anyone would think of her as. Could imagine her to be.

Zoya evolved on me. On my thoughts, on my existence and on my senses. Like the onset of spring that begins with dry petals and grows into a fulfilled promise of color, essence, brightness and bloom. Without ever wanting to, without ever really trying to, I just felt the distances shrinking and our existences converging. She did not mind rooks being called elephants, bishops being called camels and knights being called horses. She could care less about the conventionality. She was all about everything that at times did not exist to the normal eyes. She was all about challenging senses and romancing life in her own way. and while she did all that she did not even know she did it all. Every passing moment of knowing Zoya I knew that she was a maverick defining her own world and her own existence. And defining a world and an existence for all that was around her. To know Zoya, you had to know that world. You had to know her existence. Else you would have seen all of Zoe yet never have known Zoya.

It took me some time. Not a lot. But a bit of time to really figure out when Zoe turned into Zoya for me. She had a way. A way with my senses. She could be just herself and still make me see colors of life. And not only me. She had her way with sandstones, with the wind and with trees on a windy sunday afternoon. I could feel her talking to them. And them talking back. They had her own language with her. Every swirl, every mild gust spoke to her. and she would smile at them. I would stand back and watch them talking. Hear the conversation but not understand it. Like when you are in the middle of Bordeaux listening to people talk and when you do not understand a word of French. But you still know they spoke. It was kind of like that. I knew Zoya spoke to them. The wind, the fig tree, the sandstone. For, as long as she was there, with them; they just spoke. I did not understand a word of what they talked about but I knew they talked. A lot.

I still don't know fully what Zoya is! But I know why Zoya is. Like I don't know what Rachmaninoff, Choppin and Rubinstein are but I know why they are. I know they are because the world needed them. The world has always needed them. Forever. Sometimes for reasons that can't be defined but always for reasons that speak to your soul. Such is Zoya for me. I am still getting to know who Zoe is but I know for sure why Zoya is. She is because she speaks to my soul. And sometimes she does all that without uttering a word. All I know is that Zoya is there and that I can see and feel her.

Drizzle

Here we go again! Finally it is here. The first morning drizzle of this winter. I am not a big fan on weekdays. Makes your life lil’ complicated because you still got to go and work. Earn your living and pay your bills etc.

But there is something absolutely amazing about these first season drops. The sound it makes when falling on freshly laid tar. The misty touch it hits your face with. You wipe it dry to be hit with it all over again. And then again. The way it forces the most undisciplined of the lot on streets to walk in a straight file. Each one of them trying to avoid getting drenched.

But what really amazes me is the power these tiny droplets have. What else could engulf an ever burning blaze of mighty sun but these tiny, powerless, evaporative, almost non existent fickle hydra fumes? What an irony! Amazing! Is not it?

Aura

No matter where you are, no matter ever so away and so far,

No matter if I di'nt see you today, no matter not on altar;

You are out there - somewhere, a place ever so bright,

Like the music playing across my window on a friday night.

My heart, my mind - when I think o'you, you so serenade me.

You are the aura - when I look a'you, you so fascinate me.

Sweep me like a wind, I have been standing here too long;

Stand by me, hold my hands, sing me your favourite song.

Run me through the never ending river of your lovely hair;

Let me loose in the smell of your skin, I ai'nt got nowhere.

When clouds sail away - you'r blue of the sky, you'r my azure.
You are the aura - melt into me, be mine and I will be yours.

Remembering Holden Caulfield

I woke up to a very pleasant morning today.Pleasant - until I learnt that one of my most favourite writers was no more. Most favourite, despite the fact that I have had a chance to read only one if his books. Because he did not publish any other major titles. And that was a decade ago. May be fifteen years. Who cares! With good things, you don't keep a track of time. That book had an enormous impact on me. Sort of transformational. As a kid, I remember not having told my mother that I read the 'Catcher'. I knew her well. She would never have allowed me that book when I was 16. And I would have missed out on something amazing.

JD Salinger died today. I learnt about it from the newspapers. But he left an immortal kid behind him. Yes, I am talking about the Holden Caulfield. That ever confused character from Sallinger's 'Catcher in the Rye'. One we all enjoyed reading about. Sometimes dreaded his situation, sometimes laughed at it and at other times just wondered 'how could he be?'. Whatever it made you feel, one thing was for sure. You could so easily immerse yourself into the life of Holden and those surrounding him. The story did not end with last page of the book. It took off from there. For weeks on, I kept thinking about what would happen to Holden now that book has ended and he is still stranded; still desiring; still the same confused kid? It was like one of those great stories you never wanted to end. But end it did.

And did I tell you how I got my hands on that book? Well, that is a whole different story altogether. It was lying in a dusty corner of my english teacher's personal cabinet. Old man was a genious and one of my personal favourites. I was in high school back then and spent countless afternoons at his place; listening to everything he had to say. He, his corner chair and his never ending cigarettes were constant features of my weekend life. And one day, while shuffling through his cabinet, I found this book.
I asked him, ' What sort of book is this? It has quite a funny name - Catcher in the Rye.'
He answered, ' Take a look and try reading it my friend. May be it will stay with you forever.'
And he was so right. Stay it did with me. Forever.

Chimera

I set off at dawn. On a long journey through winding roads and crumbling milestones.

That was a very fine morning when I left. No clouds, red sun and a pleasant colourless wind. Swirling across my face - touch of a ghost. A friendly ghost. But I had something else on my mind. I really wanted to get there. Get there fast and get it soon. Soon enough. I kept walking. At times, running the yards. Slowing down occasionally only to recoup my breath. I knew. If I dont get there someone else will. And I did not want to lose it. So that is how I kept going on. Driven by my desire, chased by my shadows. I made friends on the way. Good people and not so good. There were other good things too. Horses trotting, flowers blooming, birds chirping, cats yawning and gypsies singing. Many more. I remeber them. All of them beautiful and unique in their own ways. I wanted to keep them all. Be with them for ever. But I could not be. I had to keep going. They knew and they bid me a very friendly adieu. Each one of them. I moved on. Missing them and missing their beauty.

Days passed on. Time went by. I thought I was closer. I knew I was. I had to be. It was getting darker. Red sun was turning into a pale vision. Swirling wind was dying down. Flowers too far and too sparse. Birds and animals hardly to be seen. I knew I was getting there. It was a different world from what I had left behind. I missed it, but I had set out to be here. If I wanted all those beautiful things, I could have just stayed on. I could have not desired. I knew I had to be here and as darkness set in I saw end of the road. I was delighted and ran all the way till I reached the edge. I looked around. Hoping to find what I had come for. It was getting darker and difficult to see. I searched hard. But I did not find it. I sat down - tired and exhausted. I could still hear the faint sounds of gypsy songs. I could feel it. All the sound, all the light and all the music of that world I had left behind.

But I belonged here now. At end of this road. Tired and ready to sleep. And when I go to sleep, I will dream of gypsies, the red sun and the swirling wind. May be that is what I have always wanted and never knew. But atleast I know it now and know the way back home.