Am high..

Living in exile home looks like a distant dream,

No boat in sight, I look at the running stream.

One day, maybe one day I'll wander far enough to find a bridge,

One day, maybe one day in this desert I'll spot a ridge.

Life, as we know it. Love, as we want it.

In all their forms, hidden or shown.

In all their shades, bright and dull.

In all their expressions, subtle and loud.

I loved, and I lost, but at least the cycle is now complete.

I haven't lost faith, but love somehow looks now obsolete.

I know not what I write, for i have no sight,

I know not how I look, but i know i have a blight.

For now am high on love, on lust, on the unspoken assurances, on the broken promises.

I survive on the unshed tears, on the infectious smiles.

I mourn the future that will never be, on the past that will never be the future, I mourn the destiny deleted.

Am intoxicated with that longing and long for that longing itself.

Jo khatam hoke bhi na khatam ho, ye kaisa anjaam hai..

Jo padh ke hum samajh hi na payen, ye kaisa paigham hai.

Dhundte rahe hum unhe har chehre mein barson,

Jisse ek akhir baar milne ki arzoo thi, unki yaad ko ye akhri salaam hai.

Autumn

The Autumn has come. A period that tells you that the rains have done their job. They have relieved you of the scorching summer heat that you were burning in. And now the time has come to give way to the winters. Cold and dark winters. When those very rains which brought joy mean more gloom. When the drench that you were craving for a little while earlier sends shivers through you.

When the sunlight turns golden and brings a sad shimmer on everything it kisses. When the wind through your hair tickles your earbuds. When all you feel like doing is to sit and look at the landscape endlessly for it reflects on what has passed by..

I sit at your banks O Neva, and look into your eyes and see myself. And everything that has flown throw me. Sometimes I was the one rowing myself around you, and sometimes I was just drifting according to your flow. Sometimes you tried to dissuade me from going where I was going, sometimes you cheerfully sprinkled water on me. Looking at my past in your eyes, I now realize that you were watching over me all the time. You recorded everything for this autumn. Perhaps you saw it that one dusk, I shall sit on your banks, my feet hanging just over you and my eyes blank yet looking for some answers when they stare in yours. I look at you and see how far I have come. My life is just like yours perhaps. They started from somewhere far away. From a terrain that is completely different from this. And your journey has been a short one as well, but not without a few sharp turns. When both of us left what we once stood for and changed course completely. While I look into your eyes, I know you understand me completely.

And then a leaf slaps me on the face disrupting this little romance. I take it in my hand and look around to find where it came from. And I see a tree standing in the middle of the park. Its leaves turning into all colors, only the green is missing. But it wasn't always so. Just a few weeks ago it was full of life.. So you say to me Neva. But it is more pessimistic than you. In your depth you swallow the shallowness of seasons. You tell me that you will continue to flow endlessly. Looking at you I never come to know if you are bustling with warm joy or splashing the chill of cold water. But you carry everything with you so effortlessly. Unless the winters freeze even the last drop of warmth in you. But that doesn't last for so long, or does it?

These ducks that swim in you also deceive me. They look so calm, so much in control. They never let it be known to me how vigorously they are struggling underneath to stay afloat. How their feet are endlessly paddling for them to display such serenity.

That is why I like this autumn laden tree. It tells me what the reality is. It doesn't deceive me. When I see its yellow drying leaves, I know next comes the winters. Cold and dark winters. Some leaves are still not dry, but the life that ran through them is gone. What is left is reminiscent of what once existed. The softness is only to smoothen the transition to harshness of the cold. The leaves are still hanging to the tree for now, but the bond is broken. Every gush of air takes away a few. The same leaves that refused to leave the side of the tree in good times, are now deserting it. And it stands helpless, looking at each falling leave with cold eyes. What in the world he would not do to pick them up again. But it knows that he wouldn't be able to. So through the cold eyes it smiles and starts the preparation.

Autumn gives the tree some time to gear up for dark and gloomy days ahead. It prepares for the separation and loneliness. For the leaves won't return till the next spring. And even when they do, they won't be the same ones. It's the tree alone that faces the piercing winds of winters. It alone protects life deep inside it, so that when spring comes it can welcome the warmth of colors as if the winters never came. For this, he needs to harden itself. It needs to become dry for a while, for otherwise it will never be able to see another spring. It must retract the traces of life from its surface and place them safe deep inside itself. And if that means bowing down to Mr. Darwin, so be it. Let a few branches break down. Let a few become so lifeless that return of life to them is obviated. But the tree shall stand and come to life next spring. But it is alive even now. This dryness, this turning into yellow is also a part of its life. Strange how trees have the power to almost die and then be reborn the next spring.

But not all leaves on all trees depart from their trees. Sometimes they just keep clinging to the tree. They never leave. The tree fears this more. What would happen when the winters would come? What may happen if the winters decide to just stay and don't give way to the spring? What would happen if the tree hides the life so much deep inside him that it can't reach out to it itself later? Or the worst thought.. what if it doesn't make it through the winters?

The questions are many, answers very few. But I am not in a hurry, neither is this tree nor are you, Neva. So let me soak in this autumn a little more. For now, we are the soulmates to each other. Giving to each other warmth, comfort and hope..

Words.

Words are all I have. The only thing I know. They are the healers I know, they are the weapons as well. I chose them, I use them. Sometimes to make you fall in love with me, sometimes to hurt you so badly that you bleed. The words I say are many. Some celebrate the death, while others mourn the life. But, all have a purpose. I give them the purpose. I want them to work as I wish. Me, their master. Me, their slave. With great tenderness I chose some words so that you forget your worries, while with ruthless fury I throw curses that give you fresher ones.

But these words are all I have. I have no intellect, but only words of wisdom. I have no hope, but words of motivation. I know no humor, wit is all I use. When I sleep, I think of which words my dreams would spell out for me that night. When I wake up, I long to find my word again.

I squeeze them out of the silences of my nights, i pick them up from clamour of the mobs.I read them from silent smiles, i see them in sunlight reflecting from your hair. When i talk to you, I read your mind, and then choose my words. I do that because I want you to be affected. I start with the subtle ones, using the silences and sighs as punctuations. Carefully chosen, so as to make a deeper impact. But if you fail to register or appreciate my words, I would grow louder and choicer with what I need to say. I pick the most ornamental of the words, weaving around you the perfect net. I add enough sadness in the joints so that you stay hooked. I add irony at which you may smile. I add every ingredient that i know you like. To make you stay for a moment longer.

But when I find that my words are losing the grip over you, I am left with no option but to turn foe. I yell with rage, I burn with retribution. After all, all this was for you. How could you ignore and be indifferent. I chose the words consciously. But I meant each one of it. I believed in every single word. With all my heart I gave emotion to them making them real. Just like magic. So I must do what I do. I must inflict upon you my final blow. I must attack with you the most hurtful weapon. Guilt. I put in all the melancholy I have ever known, I put all the sorrows I have heard around me. I make others' stories as mine, so that I can make you feel wretched. So that when you fall asleep in the night, all you can think is how bad you were to me.

And then you return. And I have words for that too. My words tell you that I have forgiven you, but hide that I have not forgotten anything. And for eternity my words play slaves to me. At my commands they make you fall for me, sometimes hate me. They make you laugh, and they make you feel miserable.

But I really don't know if the reality is different. If they have in fact captured me. If they control my emotions and intent. If they are actually ruling my imagination. If they use me to unleash themselves. Perhaps am indeed playing puppet in the story woven by the words. I would never be sure. But what I know is that you'll never love me. But I want you to love my words.

Because words are all I have.

Warnings

Ever wondered whats worse? For the evil to drop by unexpectedly or to have a warning beforehand and then await its imminent arrival?

I was quite happy with the unexpected off that I got today. Slept till late, had a great breakfast and then ventured out for lunch. That was good as well, and I returned to my room. Tugged myself warmly in the bed, switched on the music and picked up Potter. Today is a good day, or so I thought.

As I entered the bed, i felt a little quack.. Well, I just sprained my back. I thought never mind that, I have a whole day to rest. A few pages later, it came suddenly. The warning, I mean. The vision started to melt in front of my eyes. I knew this feeling. I knew what was going to happen next. I could see everything as a whole, but nothing in particular. It was as if everything would just decide to blur out the moment I decide to look at it. It wasn't a good sign. I knew it too well. I knew how the rest of my day was going to be now. Well, if you don't know what am talking about, it is my bete noir, Migraine.

I remember the first time I blacked out, I thought I might have rubbed my eyes too hard. Followed immediately with a sickening headache, I saw no connection. Then in a few months, when it returned I panicked. Vision blurring out wasn't a good sign at all. Wary, I confided in my sis, who told me it was a 'simple' case of migraine. Still I went to see a doctor, who asked me to get a MRI done. Alone, in the morning I reach the hospital and enter the wing where the test had to be carried out. A family was present there. A mid-age man was to go through it before me. His wife and children all were cheering him up. N here I was, all alone. But, my case was not worrisome at all, I told myself. Thankfully, it was indeed the case. The doctor termed it as a classical case of a rare form of migraine. He tried to make me feel better by saying that it wasn't a disease at all, but a disorder. What it implied, I found much later. It merely meant that it can't be cured, it needs to be 'managed'. Whatever it meant.

Since then, there have been numerous such migraine 'attacks'. When the vision starts to melt, it just makes me shiver with anticipation. I gulp down my medicine and then wait to see what happens next. Will it come or not? If the headache does come, how bad will it be? Will it surpass the worst I have gone through? Or will it be just a minor one? I just start hoping that whatsoever it is, the vision get back to normal. And then the abstract feeling of a lost vision starts to crystallize in one side of the head. One side starts to feel as if something is getting fried inside the skull. That something is trying to burst out. I feel like cracking open my skull and taking it out!! Gradually, as I get a grip on what am seeing, the intensity of the pain starts to climb up. I close my eyes, and start praying. No God, pls no! Let it be over soon. I grab another disprin and wait to see if it works, and well, and how fast.

They come and just drain everything out of you. It feels, you are not gonna make it through without banging your head against the wall. But after a few of them, you know its going to be alright eventually. I believe thats what managing a migraine means. Knowing that the throbbing feeling you have in your brain, will die eventually. That you just need to be patient. That the skull-cracking, piercing pain is not eternal. That you'll soon be able to move your head without the pain almost killing you at the slightest of a movement.

You might think, that why am I writing all this. trying to gain some sympathy maybe? I frankly don't have a clue. But, alone in a hotel room, away from everyone, lying crippled in the bed for 4-5hrs, I didn't know what else to do.

Well, returning to the thought I started with, I think having no warning is better. It merely brings the misery to the doorstep even before it is supposed to come. And as suddenly I had thought to start writing it, I am suddenly clueless as to what to write more. And yep, am feeling much better now. Just a small lingering 'manageable' feeling in the head, which I know will not go away till tomorrow morning :)

Dilli meri jaan!

Delhi. A city, a history, a book, a poem, a beloved! Delhi means to me this and much more. Lived for most part of my life in Delhi, I long to return. To return to the warmth that I have always felt in its embrace. Like a prisoner in exile, every night I sleep off hoping to wake up in my home; every morning I wake up hoping that it was all a dream and I never left Delhi.

When I look back (recently turning 27, i think i can use thsi phrase now), I feel I have grown up with the city. Evolved, matured, come of age...

I remember my childhood spent in Chandni Chowk. Those narrow lanes, the chaat, the golgappe, the tikki! Everytime a guest would come home, I was made to rush to get the stuff, custom made acc to the taste palats of the guest.. sometimes very spicy, sometimes not so spicy. Living in the joint family with all my uncles, aunts & cousins, fighting for space for myself physically and in the lives of elders. I remember being pampered by Amma! Amma, the one who always loved me unconditionally, who cried everytime some elder scolded me, who cooked all the most delicious foods for me. N then the festivals, how the bazaars would lighten up and gloss over all the decaying buildings for Diwali, the Ramlila, or how would the scent of Sewayi would give flavor to the season of Id!

Having a large extended family does indeed bring some advantages, especially in childhood. You get an army of cousins! N since most of them resided in Delhi itself, it was quite a time we used to have. From excursions to Children's Park, Shantivan, India-Gate, CP, Rail Museum to overnight stays with my cousins in Daryaganj, Bengali Market, Tagore Garden, and elsewhere! All the pranks we played, all the stupid childish secret we shared!

I remember the streets of Lutyen's Delhi where my school was. The excuses we would make to leave early from the school and then hang out in CP. Those giant white pillars surrounded with trees! Escaping to Pallika Bazar to have look at the cheapest stuff and make fun of it! Having milk-shake at Caventer's or HCF at Nirula's! How I used to love the free triple sunday at Nirula's after my results. HCF could never taste as delicious ever after! Those trips with parents & neighbours to Children's Park. Those birthday celebrations at Qazi Hauz with family and with FP (fountain pepsi) in school canteen! The innocent days of just 'liberalized' India. When Pizza meant Nirula's and burger was synonimous with Wimpy's! I remember those years vividly. Those were the years I was growing up along with my Delhi. We were almost mirror images of each other, reflecting in each other the urge to break free, but still bound by ties, rediscovering & redefining morality, loving every moment of the new found freedom.

Post this, started perhaps the best phase of my life. I entered DCE, and we shifted to my father's official acco in south Delhi. I started switching between hostel during weekdays and home on weekends. I had the best of both the worlds. I was exploring a new world, opening my eyes to experiences I had never imagined. Learning so many new things, building my capabilities, taking on challenges! And Delhi around me was changing as well. The city was expanding its horizons as well, concrete roads being made, flyovers coming up, Metro entering the lives of Delhiites. Slowly, and steadily we both were become confident of ourselves, sure that whatever the destiny, we would not be left behind. And surreptitiously, a kind of arrogance was also creeping in. I could see it growing in me, and even around. I was almost another individual now.

When the four year vacation ended, came the time of life when I got busy. I was doing so many things. Just entered the job, trying to prove myself afresh. Meeting so many new people, making friends. A city, where I loved, and lost, and found it again. I remember those years, when I would drive around the city in the night. Aimlessly.. with the windows rolled down, letting the chilly airs pass through me. My cranky radio would never be working well, so I had to give it company for the music to have its effect. I felt in control.

Soon after I joined IIFT and then, I lost track. 2 years just zipped past before I could even take a breath. I just kept running from assignments to projects, from presentations to quizes. Trying to take the take the strings in my hands, but I never could do that. And I lost track. And when the MBA was getting to a close, I saw that so much had changed around me. Some of my friends had already gotten married, my niece had grown up as well from a cute baby-doll to a chatterbox. Most of my friends had changed base and almost no one remained in Delhi. It felt incomplete, but it still felt home.

Delhi was Delhi to a large extent because of the numerous people I met here over the years, some who were bound with me with blood, some whom I befriended and made a part of my life. If I start mentioning them, perhaps it might take a lifetime. But I do hope that each one of you would know what flavor did your presence in Delhi added to it. To all my friends from BVB, DCE, Aricent, IIFT and to all my wonderful cousins, Delhi without you is so unimaginable. I have played with you, laughed with you - sometimes at you, shared with you the zenith & the nadir, dreamed with you, essentially lived with you!

So here I wind up my nostalgic trip. It took a lot of time to complete and a lot many sittings, but am still not satisfied. But I don't think words would ever be able to do justice to the emotions that my city evokes. N here I am miles away from it. Missing its sometimes springy, sometimes misty mornings, missing its familiarity. Someday, and someday soon, I'll return home!

Shantaram!

Shantaram! If I were to summarize the book in one word, it would be spectacular or rather unbelievable! There wouldn't be or rather shouldn't be many who like to read and still haven't heard of this masterpiece! It is a scintillating account, part-fact part-fiction of the life of the author Gregory David Roberts and his life in Mumbai, the then Bombay (1980s).

From the moment, the narrator as I would prefer to call him, lands in Bombay to the last page, he brings to life every nook and corner of the city, lifting the curtain that exists between us and the people we see on the street. I couldn't help but notice, how he gives life to the hundreds of people we see on the street, but never bother to think that even they could have a story to tell. He tells the stories of these unknown faces, and with what elan! But this book remains the narrator's story, how he falls in love with everything about the city - the maddening crowd, the taxis, the slums, the mafia, the women. But more importantly how he reclaims himself from his past.

Very few books claim to be thriller and philosophy at the same time, it is one of them. The book takes you to the dark lanes of Bombay, you never knew existed. It talks about everything you already know about Bombay - the mafia, the bollywood, the slums, the muggy weather, the Hajji Ali, the Fort area and above all Leopold's. But then it never stops there. All these come alive and play out their role in the narrative and its a piece of art how they intertwine with each other to give Bombay the flavor it has. Alas, the Thackareys perhaps would never be able to understand what Bombay stands for, not just to the marathi manoos, but to the rest of India as well.

The characters are neatly drawn with most of them having a mysterious streak about them. From the sharp, quick witted Karla to the enigma of mafia don Khader, to the youthful Abdullah, to the sarcastic Didier. The biggest exception is the affable taxi driver and the best friend of the narrator, Prabhaker. It is his simplicity and innocent intelligence that that takes you by the arm and makes you turn page by page. Another of my favorite character was Karla, of course. Most of her lines can easily pass as punchlines and philosophies dipped in sarcasm and brutal honesty. And when she says that being listened to is one the best and dangerous thing in world, I couldn't agree more!

But in the end, the book is about love. Love in all its shapes and forms, for a friend, for a beloved, for a father, for a brother. Unrequited love and the longing, the pain and suffering that it brings. Its about realization of oneself. Its about learning to live on one's conditions and to love unconditionally. If this is what is spirituality, then indeed Shantaram opens the gates to it. The words remain with you long after you have closed the book. Many times in fact you would close the book yourself to grasp what Didier says, what Karla mumbles or what Shantaram realizes throughout the course of the book.

It is indeed one of the best books I have ever read. It creates a different world around you and weaves its magic that bedazzles you and engulfs you. I hope Mira Nair would indeed make the movie with Johny Depp as THE Shantaram Big B as Khader. This story needs to be told. The only grudge I had with this book was its length, it could easily be shorter by about a 100 pages.

The book indeed made me wonder how a foreigner could understand India so well. In fact, at so many times I felt he knew more about us than what we know. He talks about everything good or bad, never being judgemental, or cynical. And when you finally close the book, what remains with you are the author's words and you wonder how true they sound... Sometimes in India, you need to surrender first before you win.