Any dream will do

A walk in the park

Five days a week without fail

Slow but sure results.

Shake and a shimmy

To the music in my ears

Three extra cals lost.

My thighs nowadays

Sing songs of separation

Erm, from each other.

My old button-ups

Love the loss of two inches

Less to suck-it-in.

Green, green everywhere

Marvel at the foliage

Never see the grass.

Some things never change 

My kindergarten teacher

Is still 'Miss' to me.

She sits on a bench

Smiling at the years gone by

And the world she knew.

Resplendent in red

Not a wrinkle mars her face

Stop. Good evening, Miss.

Men with nagging wives

Time for commiseration

No blah-de-blah, bliss.

Old men with grandkids

No generation gap here

They love each other. 

Huff, puff, help me, God

Help me make it home this once

Promise I won't binge.

Apple on the fridge

Bite, thank the powers-that-be 

More fibre, less fat.

Head hits the pillow

Sleep be a lady tonight

Any dream will do. 

End note: Alternatively titled 'A story in Haikus' or 'Benefits of exercise in Haiku form'. 

Interesting weekend.

Background: Some time back, I did work for a friend in the US for which I was supposed to be paid X dollars. Post 3 weeks of 20 hour days and loss of sleep only because I could see my bank balance going up in one single move, I was informed that I would be paid somewhere to the amount of X/3 because the finished product didn't meet their requirement. Sixpence none the richer, haha, but smarter about the ways of the world. I let my ego speak and said I wouldn't accept it, to which I was given the reply: "We've thought it over and decided we'll round it off to amount Y (which was marginally better than X/3). We think you should take it. Translated into Indian currency, it is a sizable amount." Hmm. Ignore, ignore. Mailed the said party yesterday in very polite terms that thanks for the very considerate increase in remuneration, but no thanks. Never did accept pity or charity graciously. Maybe they could use the money for office petty cash. Don't know the yankee equivalent of that term, don't care. So, please refrain from telling me what it is. If you do, take it and shove it you-know-where.

She became my friend through another friend eleven years ago. Arian, smart, funny, small in stature, but a tough cookie. She married her first boss. Arian. Plump, with a ready smile, warm, and yes, funny. Arian+Arian = Frequent squabbles at home over trivial things. Last week was no different. Cold shoulder treatment Monday thru Wednesday, make-out session on Thursday. Just before the, erm, most vital part, she tells him - "We need to talk." To which he responds - "Yes, we do." To which she says - "Okay, we can continue." Gotta love that beeyatch. Of course, he did request her later to NEVER, EVER do that again, that it could make or break the, erm, situation. Asked her to go swipe-happy with his card over the weekend. Naturally, I was the shopping partner. We three went for dinner and drinks at night. His treat, as is the usual case. He's got a US visa stamp on his passport. Have told him to bring me back Bath & Body Works country apple body spray when he goes. Have a yen for fruity perfumes. Have vanilla, two or three citrus ones, melon, mango, something called Hawaiian Ginger which is more banana than ginger, but no apple. She did ask me to mention her name, wanted to be famous, but I won't. Can't have someone else stealing the thunder from right under my nose now, can I?

Had my first Long Island Iced Tea, but substituted the cola with lychee juice. Gave up soda four years ago, and now am pestrified of them. Got pleasantly inebriated and yes, babbled. But since it was them two and both are teetotallers, I was allowed those slip-ups.  Had some very delicious Pasta Alfredo, flavoured just perfectly at this lounge bar called Casa del Sol. The chef made it a bit spicy and less cheesy. Made to order just for me. They don't have a site, or would have linked them. Would've been only too happy to. Belong to the Casa Piccola group. Excellent service, good music, relaxed ambience, and the food? Yummmmm. Heavenly. Orgasmic. Was so happy with the pasta that I turned down dessert. Me! Ha! 

It's Sunday evening and I had my customary cup of ginger tea outside in the sitout. But for once, didn't count the number of black cars on the street below. Looked straight up and ahead at the blue skies and the canopy of trees, and just for a moment, pretended I wasn't here. Was nice. Listening to Kishore on a loop now. My Sunday fix. 

Aa chalke tujhe main leke chaloon

Ek aise gagan ke tale

Jahaan gam bhi na ho aansoo bhi na ho

Bas pyar hi pyar pale

Ek aise gagan ke tale...

Pay close attention to the opening flute piece of the song the next time you listen to it. Hear the birds chirping? Background music makes life that much more easier to take, doesn't it?

Happy week ahead, everyone! 

Little pink and purple flowers lining the curved path that leads to the bleak, grey walls of the hospital. The picture of Jesus that hangs on a wall. A candlestand beneath it, on which shine a dozen or so lit candles. People, who till then did not think of Jesus in their most desperate of prayers, kneeling and praying. No-nonsense nurses in whites giggling quietly, all the pain in the world just a day's work for them. Doctors with their stethoscopes dangling around their necks, lying limp on their coats' lapels. A desolate stretcher that waits for its next occupant. A guard in his khakis, zealously guarding the entrance, weary and wary at the same time. He's seen both life and death. So what are you glaring at him for? 

In the near distance, from the church, the strains of a fervent prayer, something you would have laughed at had you heard it on the radio. The tap-tap-tap of footsteps along the corridors, some faint, some right next to you, some trying to run away from where they are leading to, some striding with a purpose to get it over and done with. Tap tap tap. Soft murmurs in the halls, a strange mixture of forlorn hope and quiet despair. Waiting to get out into the sunshine, even if it's raining outside. Waiting for a tomorrow that isn't what they want it to be, but waiting nevertheless. Silence that permeates every wall, cloistering and comforting at the same time.

Outside, tired, haggard faces, because of their loved ones inside. Not wanting to be seen, but not caring if they are. Not wanting to give up, but getting too close to it for comfort. Leaning on stone walls, because there is nothing else to lean on. Smiling at strangers, because they don't understand, but somehow they do. A slight drizzle, with the sun peeking through the clouds. No promise of a rainbow, but the eyes stealing a look skyward, hoping to see one. Or find one. A rubble of heap, stones, cement, and what have you just outside the gates. Next to the tender coconut seller. An old photograph lying on top of the rubble. Three generations in one frame. The frame, black, in prime condition, solid. The photo, yellow with age, speckled with neglect, and brown in places where water seeped through. The grandparents, seated, serene, wrinkled, gnarled; the son and his wife, standing on either side - the wife demure, the saree could have been any colour, but something tells me it was yellow with a green border, strands of fragrant jasmine in her hair, the son, hair combed back, white shirt, black trousers, proud; the grandchildren, perched on the arms of the chairs, grinning; and the unseen photographer, who, though not in the frame, was in the moment. "Smile, please". Click. There you go. So someone somewhere will know where they came from.

It must have adorned someone's wall just yesterday. Today, it lies on a mound of debris. A careless passerby threw the drained coconut kernel on it and it cracked the glass. Uncaring, no, just careless. After all, the picture is not of his family. The death knell has been sounded. Tomorrow, it will burn in a garbage dump. Just like countless others have before it.

So this is what it all comes down to, isn't it?

The staccato rhythm of footsteps.

Pretty flowers lining curved paths that lead to and away from desolation.

Hopes of unseen rainbows.

And time in a photograph that nobody remembers or cares about.

It's funny, really.  

Deleted this by mistake, so just posting again...

The writers' network that I belong to is doing a sestina theme. Given my limited vocabulary and given that I haven't met anyone after him who has had as powerful an impact on me, I'm attempting a sestina (inspired by the same post) in all sincerity.
 
I suggest you read up the sestina link provided. For your easy reference, down below are the six words that each line of the first stanza ends with. I don't think this follows the Iambic pentameter, but Wikipedia says there is no restriction as such, so we'll go with that.
 
1. Rains
2. Fire
3. Mind
4. Afternoons
5. Myself
6. You
 
Howling winds, pouring rains
And the soup is cooking on the fire
Thoughts of you don’t cross my mind
Like they do on summer afternoons
But look at me lying to myself
That only one season reminds me of you
 
Hoping to catch a glimpse of you
Outside, through the pouring rains
When I am alone, all by myself
Inside, for a quick reflection in the fire
For I am too busy in the afternoons
To pay thoughts of you any mind
 
I live in a city called denial in my mind
Burning for no one, not for me, not for you
It’s been a year of pallid afternoons
Waiting for the invisible rains
No cheery hearth, no wood to feed the fire
For long, it’s been I, me and myself
 
I try hard not to look at myself
To veer stray thoughts of you away from my mind
I don’t want to rekindle a dead fire
That burned a long time ago for you
In December chills, in September rains
And even on sweltering April afternoons
 
Years have passed, leaving behind afternoons
Of memories of when I wasn’t all by myself
And of conversations about nothing in the rains
And of guilty secrets allowed only in my mind
When I was I and you were you
And we had all we needed to stoke the fire
 
Now all that is left are embers from the fire
Cooped up within four walls in the afternoons
And somewhere in the world, there’s you
Not pining for me, the me I’ve become myself
Yesterday’s memories swirling in your mind
Amidst the mountains in Canadian rains
 
Pouring rains and you together, only in this line,
And afternoons are all that I have to myself
And yet, a forgotten fire still burns in my mind

This is a C&P job. Not my words, not by a mile.

Written by someone infinitely more gifted.  

Something that I felt deserved a wider audience. 

Of course, I have the necessary permissions to reproduce it here. 

What do you think?

************

The trick is to detach yourself, to become the observer.

Then you watch the tendrils of pain, from their tentative beginnings. Hold it in cupped palms, watch it bloom like a flower. Observe with anticipation as it courses through the body like a lambent flame, till it subsumes the mind in a raging inferno that seeks to blank out everything else. Feel the crimson coloured petals envelop consciousness, smother all rational thought, till one even loses the sensation of pain. When all the crevices of the mind are filled, there is a blissful nothingness. Or an ultimate satiety, depending on how one looks at it.

Like going through a dark tunnel where you can only feel the closeness of the walls around you and emerging into a sunlit plain, the brilliance of nothingess is dazzling. It is at once totally alive and devoid of all passion. It is the white that is the sum every hue and the black that swallows them all. It is wrong to call it a joy; it is a plateau that is far higher than these minor highs of sensual or emotional pleasure.

One seeks these plateaus in different ways. A long run followed by a sprint over the last few hundred yards, searing lungs and muscles aflame progressively building a crescendo of pain that ends in a silent scream of pure release. That last set of weights added to the bar as you hold it above your chest, elbows taut, groups of muscles involuntarily jumping as you lower it ever so slowly. However, these offer but glimpses into that vista of infinite emptiness.

For the true experience is in holding it inside you. Go about your work in absolute, easy normalcy. Only occasionally allow yourself that luxury of feeding the oxygen of attention to those embers that smoulder deep inside, fan the flames till they singe, then burn and finally purify. Wipe away these abrasions of the daily grind. For as noted earlier, fire cauterizes.

And as you do it, the letters on the page in front of you lose focus, and then come back with renewed clarity. The meaningless people pressing cases of varying irrelevance become faceless, then slowly regain identity, and then slowly the disjointed facial movements attain a voice, and then conversation continues.

"Err, could you run that by me again ?", you say.

Exultant, inwardly.

One more hit, one more swig from that bottle of sparkling nothingess. Or an ultimate satiety, depending on how one looks at it.

Purely as an observer, of course.

I think it was the 8th of August, 1994 that it all started. It could have been the 4th for all you know. I'd lost Ma a couple of months before and was still trying to cope with the newly bestowed Lady-of-the-manor title her absence brought with it. I remember it was in early August. How my memory falters! Old age, you see. It is just not what it used to be. I may not remember the date, but I do remember the day. It's crystal clear, forever etched in my memory. (Cheesy lines galore!) 

The auditions had begun a couple of weeks before. It was the first year of college. Post college student union elections, this was what we had all been looking forward to. College auditions for various extra curricular and cultural teams to represent the college at  intercollegiate competitions were in full swing. Of course, nepotism and favouritism were rampant even then, I'm sure, but I wasn't this jaded then, so cynicism crept by me.  I was this starry eyed 18-year-old and some of the senior guys were heartthrob material, I'll give you that. Out of hundreds of tryouts, I was in the final 20 and the day dawned bright and clear. We were to sing on stage in front of the whole college and it was my first time. I'm sure all of you know the jitters of first time experiences :o). 

The previous day's final selections had given me some sort of courage. There was this girl who was auditioning. I distinctly remember her face.  A round, Bengali girl who sang Kabhi Door Jab Din Dhal Jaaye pronouncing the "a" syllable only as a Bengali can. She sang:

Kobhi door job din dhol joye...

She didn't make the cut, but the last girl to audition was this very pretty girl with long hair, in an orange and yellow dress, fair, but with braces. When she announced she would be singing the same song, chaos ensued. The boys had had enough and wanted to leave. But the girl would have none of it. She dashed to the door and bolted it. Leaning against it, she said and I quote: "No one leaves till I finish." That kind of bravado was what I lacked. I still do. But that had given me that little push to at least go and give it a try before I chickened out.

Not only did I feel I could do it, I had also made a new friend. V, who sang Jhuki Jhuki Si Nazar so beautifully, that I think it's second only to the original. It became our song. He introduced me to Jagjit Singh, by the way. He of course made it to the finals and as luck would have it, he was sitting right behind me, he was in my English class and when he came back, I introduced myself and we proceeded to the college canteen for coffee post tryouts.

So as I was saying, the day dawned, (I think it was a Saturday) and the judges were lining up. There were six of them, I think. One of them was a family friend, S, my sister's Veena master's son, so I felt I stood a fair chance. So, one by one, the twenty sacrificial goats made their way to centre stage and gave it their all. Yes, I was the last to sing. The song that I'd chosen? Tere Mere Milan Ki Yeh Raina from Abhimaan. My family and I were Hrishida's loyalists even then. (I'd sung Teri Bindiya Re for the tryouts. Guess I forgot to mention that.) So long, Hrishida. You've given us much to remember you by.

I remember what I was wearing. It was a white salwar with pink and green dots and a pink dupatta. I closed my eyes, mustered up whatever courage I could find and sang with the slightest of tremors in my voice. Inside, I was shaking like a leaf, but outside, I wanted to make it so bad, that I left most of my stage fear backstage. V was silently encouraging me from the sidelines, God bless him.

I finished with: "Thanks for listening. And not booing."

A minute of the most deafening silence and then applause. I don't think it was thunderous, but I could see V clapping real hard with a big smile on his face. And S gave me a thumbs up sign. I walked off the stage in a daze and bumped into S who said the booing comment was not at all necessary, for I'd sung really well. He said if it were up to only him, I would make it to the college team, but he felt that I did stand a good chance of making it anyway.

And make it I did. I was now in the college music team. We represented our college at many cultural festivals and won many prizes, but my favourite reward was V. He and I remained steadfast friends for 10 years, even though I lost touch with almost every other college friend of mine. The next two years, we were the judges for all college music team auditions. He balded, I ballooned, but we remained close. Two years ago, I lost him to life. He's somewhere out there now, I don't know where, but he remains one of the nicest people I've ever known.

Miss you, V. I was listening to our song today. Thank you for the music.

Tujhe bhi apne pe yeh aitbaar hain ke nahin... 

End note: Next up on College Chronicles, My First Proposal...