Coffee and Eggs

SHE

She was sitting on the chair, in front of her, rested a cup of brewed coffee with its steam rising and soon the mist dissolved in the air. The silence was near deafening as if, even a pin drop would have been loud. Table seemed neat under golden hue of the ceiling light, though it gently kept collecting thin freckles of dust appearing to fall from nowhere in an otherwise squeaky clean setting. The air inside felt so still as if was like that one memory that tends to forgets leave its space. With the spoon held in her ever so thin drawn fingers, she stirred her drink, to break the ominous silence of her surroundings. The steel of the spoon cringing over the rim of the cup filled the silence with its sound, and the gentle whirl in the cup, moved the memories stranded in the mind.

HE

Eggs- they were always handy. The steel it broke the shell and with a blub came the color-less protein and the yellow fatty blob. He looked at the mess in the bowl, briefly clenched his teeth and then with a frown wondered- when did the growl of the younger years turned into passive meekness?. He glanced at the gooey- stuff with a yellow eye winking at him. It occurred to him as if the yellow blob was smiling at him, like a “smiley” straight out of an modern internet text. The onions, a dash of garlic was already by the side, as meticulously planned.

The pan it sizzled for nice five minutes like a long-shot in a “mallu” movie. It was a matter of time before colorless mess came loud with white brightness and with a tad of crimson-yellow, giving the visual finality of the project. The lifting part from the pan was tough. But a little extra oil was the learning by experience to manage for the flipping-part of the omelet.

The Omelet lay there lonely on the table cherishing its own time and cooling itself off, while he lit his cigarette which seemed to be more essential than the meal at that moment of time, much like an essential component to cherish before celebrating the completion of day to day missions.

The first bite- told it all. Oops, so much for the culinary skills and the dreams about writing and everything with poetry- the salt was missing.

A dash of salt from over the omelet does as much good a job as with the premixed version- was the learning for the day.

The taste resembled something in common with day to day reality too. All was painted nice, looked nice, smelled nice, but while in the mouth- was a bit bland; So much for art of living in the bliss of solitude- hogwash.

Savoring the last bite of his quick meal, he poured his gaze, over the silent TV set, the book shelf at the other end and rested finally on the photo-frame on the table and he took a deep breath. He mulled over his sigh for a moment before lifting himself and puttin the plate into the sink. He then walked over to the refrigerator, gulped the water through the bottle. Staring at the eggs inside the refrigerated he wondered, all said and done, there is whole unknown world that resides under a shell. 

Project Pathos

On another night,

I sat again by my side.

Thought a little about a dream

Then of a small desire,

hidden distant from the sight.

And another night

I sat by your side

Thought a little about a smile

Then of a memory

Hidden distant behind a thousand miles.

I remember of this one too

When I needed you

I sat under the dark sky

Searching for the star

They say you’ve turned into

Hidden distant somewhere into the night.

Project Pathos

As I walk past you

in the morning;

Your perfume lingered

more than it had to;

The waves of your hairs

Just brushed one side

For a moment, I smiled,

Almost whispered a Hi

                                             

A fleeting moment passed by

In the morning;

Your smile, curve of your lips,

held me, more than it had to

The touch of your fingers

In the hindsight

For a moment, I sighed

Almost whispered a Hi

As I walk tired

Into a lonesome night;

Without a whiff of fragrance

No smile, not that I had to

A shadow, Walks past the side

Into the winds comes a memory

For a moment,

I sigh, manage a smile

Wishing sweet dreams, good night

See you tomorrow….and

I wish I could say …good bye.

Project Pathos

I did not a thing for you

Not one,

that i am aware of,

or if i ever did a thing for you

i don't know if it had a bit of love

or my vested interest

I have deceived you

cheated

thats a truth,

I wonder you've ignored

and if you;ve not

i'll be more than glad

the day you choose

not to part

but to slice me into shreds

I wonder if that'd let go

of my deceits

or even relieve me

of my own contempt

to the person,

that was and the one today.

With love,

I can say

I never knew you

never understood a thing

Never cared too

but i was there,

at every step

trying to know me from myself

and it was through you.

P.S: Adolescence

Arrival of Rains 2012

Its 4.00 a.m in the morning. Must I say, I have a view from my balcony at this hour. Wish I had a camera, but somethings should be captured in the mind. Funny, it is that I have being dramatizing this moment in the mind for such a long time.

Its going to be a almost a 10 year stint in this place. Affection, like life finds its way over a period of time. But then, I mentioned a view. This one is special. Outside the lamp post is as usual wonderfully pouring yellow light down on a lush green tree. Beyond the small fence lies a lush green sports lawn. Not exactly of the size measured in the number of foot ball fields, but quite small. May be a fourth of the foot fall field. Beside the this ground, is the two storied, school. Desolated, at this hour, relaxing in silence. Beyond, at 10 floored eye level is the green hill. Rather a series of green hills. Still and green, and encompassing a town, away from the hustle. Witness this with the first drizzle that comes over.

This is first rain of the season. In this dark morning, the drizzles started pouring heavily, the classic pitter patter. For us, its going to be the last spell of Mumbai monsoon in this place. Rains which are mostly dreaded, I have noticed is also mostly awaited here in the city, irrespective of the filth it brings about on the roads. But then , people here have habit of looking up come what may, at the dancing stream of rains over the city skylines, over the queens necklace, over the beach line, and its those sights,that I have noticed is cherished.

And of course, I am not alone, I know at this hour, there are many who would be sleepless and sinking into their own feelings. Sucking the quite ness of the pitter patter before the rush. Lot of eyes would be watching out of the windows. A few hands would be stretched out of the windows. And a few, feeling the coolness over the fingertips and coldness over the skin. All of this under the night sky while the dark clouds gently are falling down and apart.

There is a funny image I have though, one of a sleepless infant child, laying alone in the cradle listening to the rain drops, wondering at the pitter-patter down on the window. Mfay be smiling with glittering eyes wide open and wondering at the mysterious wonderment of the sound,while half of world sleeps, unaware, a distant life forms its way under the realm of things unseen, un noticed.

The Door

As I write this, a few doors are getting closed behind.

I step out of the door. Subconsciously, I am aware, that I am stepping out for the last time, out of this door. I would not be stepping in back again. I know it, its not my whims and fancy's it s the dictum of time, which has arrived to part. For certain things its a daunting fact. Relinquishing the old, for the new. The old has to die for the new to be born. No matter, how-much so ever, one would like to hold on to the old into the future too. Thats where we were gifted with memory. Memory distinctly unlike other imaginations.

So thats what happens, when you look things closely, you just might re-surrect a dead chirst for another incarnation of three years, and eventually hung over on cross, then on a church and over the sands of time. Or like hear the last click of the door closing the room, closing up a memory, few windows, few walls, and invaluable moments, all locked inside, in the lonesome wish to immortalize a memory.   

Rhythm of Similes and Metaphors

On thinking while about art and creativity, some how, I have this feeling today, that writing is more tougher art to master that the other forms for painting and music. Though, I just love the trio together-the three instruments, music, words and colors. And I guess, I am with the trio, while I share my thoughts. Why I make that claim is, for the simple reason that the writer does not have the other mediums apart from only black inked words, to stimulate the sensitivities. Essentially, say to describe a setting, there are no colors that can be filled, no back ground music, to provide the metaphysical high. Even visually the image of the setting has to be filled with only words to fill the void that lies in the ordinary image of this world. There is no quietness that can be provided to express the music in silence that perhaps occupies every heart beat. There is not a smile of child in front to provide the joy of innocent ignorance and perhaps the laughter to every heart in the world. There are no billowing cold winds to be felt on a silent morning. And often the oft described image of snow capped mountain peaks reflecting the moon beam is buried too deep in the human imagination to be brought forth, in one instant, in a silent moment of reflection. And it is not easy to bring forth the craving for a tear in an otherwise quite day, and equally difficult to imbibe the pain of holding it back at its rightful point. 

But there is a simple practice that one can perfect and still get away being the writer who, is perhaps born indifferent to the deceit of this world. Well, to have the connection one that strums the heart or burns it in flames of passion there is always a -setting, in may be black and white, or with all the playful colors of life in the flora and fauna. And there is an analogy; flora and fauna- just like two lovers riding through the valleys, swimming across the blueness of oceans. With their wings free spreading like open arms with a longing stretched over ages- to have the void filled with the beauty of his starry universe. Say, the setting-it could be the very basic like a heart-beat. One, which forever, is to be preserved and yet is simply forgotten into obscurity; for, everything could rest, come to a still, but to living, to keep going, every life has to have a rhythm of its pulse, for each moment that defines the very time of its presence. And there could be an analogy comprising one that of the last stream of that scarlet of blood, freeing and liberating from the last heart beat. The analogy is not the setting of blood running down, but that of a life parting itself from the only thing that held it tight. 

And a string of words just need to swim deep into your choice of setting and across an analogy of a simile and a metaphor to describe the hidden irony of life. And maybe then words might help hear some music or even hear the rhythm of heart-beats float like music through deep recesses of silence.