Swirling Red Wine

So I see into the depth of her eyes,

Like many of us lonely

seeking answers from time

And I sink deeper in the red of your wine

Standing far from you and still

drowning into the core of your darkness

for little joys and heavy pains

I desire the nakedness of your soul

Hidden truth of a bleeding heart, I harness.

Oh, many a lives play their silly cards

Betrayals, guilt and mystic true love

Unfound, still forever lasts,

Destiny smiles, as you slip the touch

One of hidden desires

you tried to hold so hard

Cup of Memories fills with moments

which you live and left behind, so far,

mingled with shine,

flowing from your eyes,

ones which moistened and

deserted forever,

the softness of lips parched,

heaving for burning moments which

died, unfinished, left ajar.

Till one night...

Its perfectly silent today, inside the room. The monsoon is somber and melancholy. But its different. The winds are blowing out and the crows are croaking far into the drenched trees. But inside the room, its only the sound of wheezing wind and its moist coldness over the skin. Pricking coldness and lovely sound of wind and me.

I am as sane as I’ve been of late. With not much drunken heaviness on my head, though there is a strong desperation for a smoke. Growing stronger by the minute. The eyelids are feeling light, not swollen and heavy, after a long time. Lighting up a cigarette in this wind, under the dark clouds, into its stillness, but I am resisting it. Knowing fully well, that I’ll give into the strong urge, sooner. Just that I am thinking about the perfect silent place where I can soak into my cigarette. Go to some place, smoke and some how think about this silence and stay in it. If nothing, just stare into its emptiness and stay in it.

What I remember of recently is the last weekend. It was sort of a little celebration for the new apartment into which three of the friends had moved in. Usually, whenever I’ve entered into their place there is this music. Not this time. I was told it was by the sea-side with a sea view from the balcony. Escorted by and behind Haria, I walk to the balcony, it was a dark evening and I could not see any sea. It was pitch dark to see anything but the road lit with street-light and the slums that line the beach side with the black tarpaulin.but I could hear her. For a second it felt I could hear her scream for me, but I could not figure out, was it angry, brooding, gloomy, or just as powerful as the amazon.

Soon we were stretching ourselves on the couch and started drinking. That’s usual, we drink when we meet. And we drink heavy when we all meet up. Mostly we drink, till the bottles are emptied. Then we smoke cigarettes. We smoke them all the time. Till the cigarette packets are emptied. Then some one drives into the night. Gets another bottle of whiskey and few packets of cigarettes. This night was no different I remember.

I guess there was a little difference that I can recollect now. It was mostly silent that night. Usually we play music in the back ground and we drink and we smoke. Soon the music gets louder. Sometimes it turns to a noise. Noise to cut us off from the thinking. Sometimes the music is noise to take us away into thoughts far away from the frustrating week long life of servitude, of boredom. Week long days where in we try to somehow contain the restlessness and manage to keep the spirits at some reasonable level. But into this night we had all decided not to play music right up our ears. It was played into a different room , with a soft number, just barely audible to hear and we started talking.

Every one could sense Chandra’s mood. His bearded face was unflinching clear about his frustration and angst with routine life. For reasons that he tells us he doesn’t know. For reasons I think he knows and each one in the room could feels. The answers he knows but chooses denial. We start talking. We talk gibberish. Things which are of little value to build a prosperous life. We talk shit, so I feel. But anyways, we light up cigarettes, fill whiskey into the plastic glasses, and we talk shit. We try to remember the good old college days, spent at the cemented platform under the tree. Comparing our present life to the college days. Remembering how each one enjoyed the aimless life that we led. As we speak of college into the subconscious we try to recollect and compare our school days to our college days. In school, when we all had purpose, single minded effort to a goal called college. When the world was limited to your goal and your success and the struggle to success. When we were in school we thought we were brilliant and consciously tried to enhance our efforts in direction of our goals. When we wanted to prove more. The energy levels were high. And compare college days where we effortlessly lost the identity earned in school days. Where in we appreciated the world around and remained agape with the diversity that lay in front. When we first started to cherish smoking, drinking, getting high on soft drugs and adventured with our lives. Never realizing about what lay in future. And now we reflect back up all of it and remember them and talk about it and ask questions. Irrelevant questions.

We talk shit. A lot of crap. And gulp all the drinks we have. Trying to ridicule the world or appreciate its diversity. Still trying to define the meaning of the word success. Only that now it is different. Its simply unclear. The desires, the needs and the wants. Desire for calmness inside ourselves, desire for dreams, desires for sexual cravings, desire for money, desire for happiness.

Then Haria spoke, “ There are no answers to such musings, that life”. He speaks it with so much ease that its puts to rest all the discussions. Sinking in the very feeling that its another of those aimless conversations and fruitless discussions about past, present, future and useless sentiments.

After exhaustion from all this talking, we just walked into the balcony. Drunk and exhausted we sit on the hairs, on the pavement. And stare into dark night. Over the road. Far away where the sea roars. Ambrishh tells me to watch the sea in the morning-it looks beautiful, as if he wants to see its vastness in that particular dark night and may be he could still see it into this eyes. We all lay there silently, occasionally talking something. Enquiring about friends. Ambrishh asks, “ How’s Pandey doing”. I tell him “ nothing much, haven’t spoken to him in couple of days”. The conversation ends. Then the silence dawns. We talk about how much none of us wants to go to work in the morning. Then the silence dawns again.

I do not know what they were thinking. I lay there and listen to roaring sea. The wind blows through the trees making wheezing sounds. The curtains blowing into the air, rising, rumbling. Its feels cold over the skin. Cold and silent. There is this amazing balance in the nature. The howling sea it tears apart the silence of the night, yet silence and coldness prevail. Like two opposites in perfect harmony and respect for each others might. Like silence whispers the strength of void clear to the winds. Like darkness breaths on the face of the light, silently proclaiming its omnipresence in the universe.
And we remain spectators.

It feels similar today. The wind roars, the silence of solitude prevails. There is this gentle feeling of depression that takes over. The pulse feels lower than usual. But I ‘ve started to enjoy it that way. I realize I like these useless conversations. I realize I enjoy this aimless drifting. I enjoy these cold howling winds in the monsoons. I like that balcony. I like the company of friends. I like us sitting around that center table, with plastic glasses, empty bottles, morsels of food, and the useless discussion. And I know, time will change, someday the table top will no longer be cluttered, but may be with a vase sitting on squeaky clean glass pane. And may be someday we would be standing behind glass window and pull the strings to open the Venetian blinds, look outside and want to walk away and escape into the night- reflecting.

Sometime I think, we all at our ages, realize, we all keep drifting away, leaving so much behind. Into our own choices. Into our individual destinies. Unconsciously, drifting like these winds, these times. Till one night…

P.S: Reflections in the blues tempo.

Into a night

She walks around the place,
Opening her heart and her hairs,
Cute little baby
I have seen grown
Into a raunchy girl
And a pretty stone.

Thanks for the night
Turning cold and quite
Into it when I went,
Speaking to the curls of smoke you vent
Oh dear if it could heal
The heart,
But a helpless clown
I go down.

As you stand over me
I can see into lifes eternity
So they go away,
Careless streams seeping into the hay

And I hope you won’t swing tonight
Closing the windows to the morning light
With the flicker of fire
Into the blue of your eyes,

I could swim,
Into the coldness
Of these lights going dim

For now its time,
When I can see
You before me
And I can feel all that’s into the dark
With no reason to see it all
For I have it racing into my heart

Into flowing flute,
I reason for voices going mute

The peacock it sung,

Over the borders of mud terrace

Droplets fell blooming and falling

Leaving the streams over tender face

Bees flew fluttering little feathers

Into the winds the buzzing little hearts hung

Droplets fell blooming and falling

trembling streaks over tender face

Chimes from the temple

So distant and faraway

Come whisking to this night like

Like dawn stretching out in her own little ways

Awaken to this light,

Some one sang to me, awaken into the night

For what you see,

awaken to tenderness, of the naked sight, she said

Awaken to the sizzling bubbles that lie before thee

Little Search

Searching for a subject
A muse for my study
Searching for the shade
A place where I could be

Searching for sweet desire
For my love to rest
Searching for the fall
spirit breaking to seas test

Searching for the touch
Flowing feathers to ride me free
Searching for the torchlight
Into the distance, something to see

Searching for the air
In this chamber of smoke
Searching for the words
To loosen the choke

Searching for the friends
His shoulder and an ear
Searching for the laughter
Into the bubbles of her tears

Searching for the autumn leaves
Lonely between pages
Searching for the memories
Somewhere between these ages.

Searching and crawling,
I saw you towards the sea
for the long journey within,
To quench the life into thee.

With nothing better to do...

So yes, it s been quite some time since I last felt the keys on the finger. And what brings me back tonight, as I was telling a friend today, is nothing but the passionate spirit of Orhan Phamuk to unflinchingly decipher his mind in his writings. I have been through two to three of pages of his book and I am impressed, as often is the case with any good book I ‘ve read. Though I have not read many. Perhaps when you embrace the things or images, you have an hidden affection for, you get engulfed in its beauty too soon. But its blissful to be tucked under a blanket, take a book, under the golden hue of the bed lamp and read life and essay of a person who has vociferously made effort to only find meaning of life words.

And if I were to take a leaf out of this book ( Other Colors ), I must ask myself today the question why I took of blogging. Was it egotism?. Did I consider it merely as keeping a diary? Did I have the desire to be literary scholar?. Was it vanity ? . Was it too be famous?. Well, but I do not have the patience to answer those. May be it was all of it. But I am interested in recollecting how it all began.

It began much later than the time blogging was on the internet. As usual, I was late on the horizon. It began with just simply opening an blogger account. I suppose for an year I had no idea what “ blogging” meant or was supposed to be meaning. I still don’t. They say its online journalism, it doesn’t seems that way to me at least. But any ways I went on pushing the top left bar button and reading whatever a turned page brought to life. Somehow I guess that’s the way it has been with my life. Thats how stupid and exciting it can get. What I found page after page, were poems, news items, more than asked for- technical blogs, photo-blogs, greek blogs. So I concluded a blog is like a resting place for all the wondering thoughts flying in the air. A free space where every one was welcome, with a private blue room, or a conference room, or a money minting web page, with no questions asked. And I loved the subtle way in which freedom of expression was put forth right up to you. A blank canvass and Darsheel paint whatever you want to. I was in love with the idea. Believe me you have no idea that it could be such an incredibly difficult, Herculean task to decorate the graciously gifted private space. Just like most things in life, easier said than done. Compete and prove is the motto. I think one could generalize that to life. But, I suppose, life would be much beautiful, if each was endowed with the courage, strength to explore the depth of oneself and paint and actually sing a song with a band-unaware and unconscious to the prickling eyes over you. Anyhow, I started writing about whatever I could brew up in warmth of solitude or in the discomfort of workplace. And if there was a motif behind it, it was only that I held this romantic notion that some where down the line I will read my thoughts. With a hope that someday, I would walk down the boulevard of memories this life eventually turns to. And trace the journey my opinions and dreams took, and the course my life traced. Of course, I am yet to find the answer for it, though to confess, I submit to temptation of reflecting back in nostalgia and I have noticed incredible shifts over few years. I am getting worse and increasingly dissatisfied with myself to some kind of helpless inability. But that apart, again there is a reason, during this phase of innocuous act of discovering creativity, sometimes I got inspired with R.K Laxman s humor with silliest cartoons burdening with subtle message. I read few collections by Behram Contractor. I got inspired by the brooding but meticulously crafted grief of human emotions by Anton Chekov and the gut wrenching wit of Mark Twain, to name a few (rather too few to mention) and all such masters in their individual right or might, whatever. I got inspired so highly as to sin vanity, plagiarism and dare to be motivated as to day dream about writing and express my self as crisply as these masters could. Also, to mention over this blogosphere, I found many talented and incredibly young people, whose thoughts otherwise I would have not come across, and they inspired me as much as any unsung hero with whom my empathies lie.

Given my limited ability to understand things in true and factual sense, I concluded that be it expression in any form of art, music, writing, poetry, requires practice as close to be termed as devotion and sadly as profession. And I have understood I am good at neither of the two.

And having confessed that, I must say, I feel better. And thinking of all this, I remain just amazed as to how much all this prose has effected my brain. The lasting impression which all these liberated spirits have left on me is to seek an originality of one self. Probably, it’s the second most toughest task after the struggle to earn ones bread. And perhaps, these Of the many lessons from there work is that, may be all of these artists found their original self by being true to themselves. I suppose they went through both misery and joy of life like everyone, but all along they silently collected the residue from this churning life. They did not sell there conscious, they just ceased betraying it any further. And tactfully unburdened all the grief or joy and brought out the varied confection of the words, colors, notes, music and sensitized and tickled all these subdued elements that make a human.

And these are great men. I mean, nobody’s mom s gone tell her kids to be Rudyard Kipling or Ruskin Bond, or any thing like that, but that doesn’t mean these men weren’t great. They have become people whom the society loves to adore but dare not to dream of becoming one. There’s just a wonderful different crazy wonderland, better left alone in a nice little corner of imagination. But I love the work these great people achieved, which could just excite the dormant senses. The task of tickling with human emotions and to make you feel like one.

Adieu to a loner

Today, I sit here. Waiting for a part to be sealed. Holding on the anxiety and the nervousness of bidding a part good bye. I do not know, if we meet again. May be some where long down the road, I shall meet my friend for one more time. Till then, as I see today, it would be late. Not that I have regrets for not keeping it with me. Not that I hate it, not that I have remorse for it. Nothing of that sort, rather it’s the strongest sense of silent unspoken understanding with it. A silent acceptance of a loner within. People might hate that, but I love it the most. More than any thing and any one in the world. It is something that has made me real, far beyond the relation of flesh and blood, something which makes me feel more human than the whole world.

I wish, it remained the longest night of my life. By the sea-side. With each wave a splash of memory rising and striking the walls. Walls that we make around ourselves. Walls that the world builds around itself. Each one for ones security, for a comforting familiarity, to be among the known and derive the pleasures from it. But I suppose its mostly to keep away ones fear of quarrelling with life alone.

With each memory, a splash of wave moving forward and a shining glance falling behind. Behind in time, over the stretch of wall, by the seaside.

While at a modern day cafe

In a particular sense of disbelief for myself, I sit at one front corner of the coffee house. Its an amusingly stupid choice I consider, for of course unknown reason. May be because all the sockets for plugging in any thing that need to charged are at one private lonely corner in every room you go, the same is the case for this place. If you need charging up, go to a lonely corner of the room. However, that's not the point. The point is how so ever, I strive through the day to keep up my charming self, I realized the "routine" prevailed and before it could turn blasé, I decided to drop in to this coffee house. With the meandering thought to relax, enjoy a coffee over news in print and kill time. Or may be to kill my sense of time, which I guess is already dead, but anyways. And like usual, some one had taken diligent effort to loose middle pages from the news paper, which supposedly had continuation of stories from front page. Finally I browsed over the supplement. Going over the movies screened and gossip in the world. No matter individual opinions, those are the new items that are trendy and make up for a well-informed gentleman these days. By gentlemen, I mean the groomed guys with well-groomed girls behaving in a well-defined fashion, updated with the gigs in the city, the movies screened in multiplexes etc etc. Before even a glass of water arrives at the table, I was over with the supplement with slight disappointment for it not having the slightest provocation I was sometimes secretly look for. May be because I would like that old tradition of deriving pleasure from pictures in magazines and paper to be continued in the modern age. As a mark of respect for the print.

Eventually, I gave up and left myself to favorite daydreaming looking straight at the red wall in front of me. The only thing I could manage is to over hear people talking. And I thought of coffee houses as place, where people enthusiastically or politely share experiences, adventures of life. Talk about nostalgic memories. Engrossed in intellectual discussions about Asian economic powerhouse being exploited by west. If that's too much expectation then talk on various forms of Art, Cult Movies, Vintage Classics. Discussions about fascism, omnipresent racism and these days reverse racism or whatever. A relook at great human history or music or whatever, some thing that was of higher order than the pedestrian life. But that was not to be. Sometimes, you just end up hearing a couple engrossed in solving the mysteries of life and discussing the color of curtain matching with wall paper and furniture linen and last but not the least, the families budget. Then I realized that the pattern for wall-paper itself was not frozen between them. All homely chores put forth open on the their table and of others. Life can be sweet, I think. I guess that's the problem in the world, choice and garnering the courage to exercise it. Then the society committee members start allotting the parking lot. All I could conclude at this hip-hop coffee shop is that my perception of the world has been always skewed. And may be I was wrong.

It is really not far in time, when I used to be sitting out side on shabby but neat chai shop during the college days. Under the cool shade of a tree, under a little shack, over the warm cement, in a little known tinsel town. We had the newspaper, even Economic times subscribed to a place with no address. The paper boy knew the place, the owner of the place knew the subscribers, the subscribers knew the editors. The guys would just drop-in, bypassing all roads, that go to classes with benches and blackboards. Greet each other with abuses rushed like love letters, smiling and bursting into laughter and dig into the newspaper finding sections of individual interests, snatching and grabbing from hand to hand. And the humble guy would keep smiling and scoffing and keep blabbering and pulling legs of each one. He would serve cups of tea one after another, back to back without any one requesting it. Tea was brewed continuously-masala, special, with ginger, lemon tea, whatever, take or leave it was the attitude. The chat would range from the elections, to international crisis, from virtues of god and evil, truth about right and wrong. Opinions formed on how cruel and smart the state of Israel has been and how fool hardy the leftist in the country are. When guys were peculiarly enthused and curious about the world. All that now sounds peculiarly naïve unless coming from the sexy news anchor over television. I guess maturity calls for being focused in life and execute the little things which make it up. May be that's not a bad idea altogether.

But watching all the cuties walking around makes me think I would be fool to look for Nazi history at this moment. And to be very honest people discuss a lot of issues which are absolutely attached like leech to the ground reality of survival and happy life. And may be these are the issues which make up a general life and not the nuke deal. But that's all because I have never made up my mind on any issue I feel. With certain people every things ok as long as it comes without much hassles.

Sometimes, I have this strong opinion that the world has been always like this. That the coffee house during the earlier days would have had the same comfortable environment riddled with trivial petty issues. Because solution to all the little things in life has made life what it is now. And constant pondering on little issues is what keeps an other wise empty time filled with some purpose to pass it away. Achieve one goal, set another and get on to the next one. Some crazy guy would have found it extremely inconvenient to go far away to fetch a cigarette and would have discovered the wheel. Wheel to roll the world. And the life went into circles. That's how it is. Some crib and some do something about it. That could be a very possible argument to encourage all the society people and squabble about society troubles and the couple should squabble about each other coming late in spite of thousand mediums to commune. And people wasting half the time making up their mind to choose the perfect dish for all the value of their money. But a brilliant idea would born out of all this. And some how I find the most amusing, interesting and amicable person is this guy gyrating to the beats of the music from the speakers, tapping his feet gently on the floor and watching her girl friends lips move to talk to empty air. And shes so lost in talking her heart out. Pretty cute.

All this is while I feel the eyes behind my back. How could one come with a coherent stream of thoughts in such madness. All I realize is that to communicate with each other has become extremely important substance for a creative out come these days. And may be that s why people , these days, are talking so much.

In a pedestrian life like this you really can expect a great journalistic work, but not from me, and before I loose it all, I can loose a piece of my mind.

But surprisingly the bill came with a nice little hand written note, " Dear Guest, it was nice having you … ( a smile).. keep coming ! " . For a moment it felt like honor to a skewed patron but then it appears it was just another new customer retention marketing strategy to have a mind share for the brand. I don't know, where should I put my beliefs?

May be that's what people talk so much for a genuine sense of belonging in this world taking an over bearing exercise to make their presence being felt. The thing is make your presence feel for the listener.

---CCD, Ghatkopar

P.S: A few days later, I noticed, the thanks giving note was presented to me yet another time in another coffee shop. It was also hand written to give a sense of personal touch. They give it to every customer.

Reflections of a married man

And I watch her going about the daily chores. Arranging our home. Dusting the table, wiping the beads of sweat from the forehead. Unaware about her lazy hubby over internet. Can't say if I know her, but then, I have never bothered much. She came just like that, since then things have been in present. I have grown liking to observe her, walk around. A company, little fluttering butterfly, flapping around, willy-nilly, in a sub conscious way, unaware of the eyes over it. Nah, may be not, she's been flamingo too at times, silent, with intent gaze, waiting for the opportune moment. But again, time and memories in course of time, sweetens the residue of bitter moments of bickering in the past. I like her glow in smile, I like her perturbed, I like her frown with glittering eyes, I like watching her tears tumble down over her cheeks.

Sometimes, I wonder, what does she know of me. That thought used to be scary, giving me Goosebumps. Now it doesn't scare me much. Something of mine, gave up, sort of succumbed. Her ignorance of my deeds is now shielded behind unknown grace and humility.

And I write this perhaps for the reason, that someday she'll find the truth. May be she'll understand I wanted to tell her the truth and she'll let it all be, the way it is.

P.S: Futuristic Blues.

Burying the future- A self obituary

It was just another time while I was wondering. So to say, looking behind in time. And just about a crazy night, when a friend quipped, that I should write about a Obituary for my self. Brilliant idea to put an obituary, before you are dead, we thought. I don’t know, but it suddenly occurred, while through the ears phones I could hear words fading into the rising pitch of music, what would I actually wish to be on the stone over my grave. And how so ever simple, it might seem, it was not easy to think it over and look at the end. So, as I thought, what it would be like, I assumed it would be for pure feelings for every thing that make up life. I would probably wish it to read, “ My life began as a fortunate kid, with a dad who was like a dad, a mom who was unlike any other mom, my wife was the first and the best (that’s all she bothered to know about, that’s the point, I tried to drive home), my kids, I am sure were mine (in more than one respect), my friends for ages remained like boys, my colleagues never could be selfless, the places were I had been, were all beautiful, be it the muddy alleys of hometown village, or the broadways lined with glossy façade. Life, as a overall package was good or I prayed for it to be. Though I realized late. Rather too late. Tried my best, to have the best squeezed out of it. I do not know if I succeeded, and now no one can help sort it. In the end just tried to cherish the memories. Basically, I loved you all, loved the nature, loved this planet, loved gazing at the blue sky, loved the placid lakes, loved the tumbling clear river, loved those who faded before me, love for those after me, loved the silence of serenity and loved the noise of worlds clutter, missed you all, most of all I miss this life. Will miss it. Given a chance would love to live once more, make it better next time. It might seem wishful for having such life. But then I guess that s what every one wishes for, the wishful things. In the end I cannot describe what formed my identity in the world. Which piece was I in the jigsaw puzzle board. And I suppose search of identity somewhere remains dipped in love for some thing or hate for some one. At the end the fact remains – I am dead and you are alive. And, I love you the most. Thanks for coming.

It appears to me however, though I am an hindu, I would prefer myself buried underneath a large stone, and if not this particular one, there is a better obituary written over it. I don’t know if any one carries or owns in this word, call it a stupid notion, I would love to own that six feet of ground, neat one, as a bonus with this life. And that the grave stone would be over green neatly trimmed green grass, with creepers curling over the grave stone. I mean creepers with some pinkish, yellowish, flowers. And it should curl around in a fashion to just enough for leaving uncovered the part of the obituary to be read by you. Dated : 1980-20XX. Please look into that and Watch it!”

P.S: Pssst, Helloo,.. Occasional visitors are welcome, long stay is not desirable. Here, I rest!

About the line..crossed

If its that line...i crossed it...walked along lil more..i found another..i crossed that too...i see another line down the way ..approaching...i wonder...should i cross this one too ..

P.S: While i surfed and pondered over a line...:P

At Sea

The weekend had arrived. A group of friends were heading to Pune. Another friend was already doing the preliminary round at the countries most sought tourist spot, his eyes gazing over the white sands, smooth skins and across the blue ocean. The cute friend was on the way to the capital of the city. Another punter some where, I guess, was riding his bike making arrangements to drench his throat in a dry state.

So by noon I was swifting through the streets of Bandra. Through the swarming people, under the billboards and on the road, cruising beside dreams homes of the celebrities, rich and the affluent and on the other side, the vast sea. Perhaps at that moment, it was the most perfect place I could reach too. And as I drove past the sea, billowing smoke, with gushing winds caressing the hairs and swiping the sweat from the face, I realized the sea was always there for me. I was at sea.

And while I was sitting at the sea side coffee shop, I saw a young girl pass-by with blue striped sleeve less tank top which hugged her seductively curvaceous body and frilled skirt over her toned legs. And the whiff of the perfume while she passed was enough for me to forget that it was AIDs awareness day. But I was at sea and I had music somewhere within me. So I smiled and she smiled in return. And for a while, the smile was so seductively inviting that would put the devils head to rest.

And when I gazed over the Arabian sea for some food for thought, I realized that for this while, I had no need for any nourishment. It’s a lonely planet and I was busy dreaming to sail at the sea.

Snapshot 2007

For a long time, I have believed that the beginning of new year is nothing but an innocuous increment of single digit.. And it was now long past new year night, while I got my spirits high over drinking spree with a young legend, listening to retro music from Beatles, Elvis, Jim Morrison, mesmerized with husky voice of Arooj Aftab and drifting to the gray shades, I realized that it is not as simple. Life never is. And as I tried to see through this prism, the incremental shift of one digit seemed like cruising 365 long days and long nights with scattered flashes of memorable moments in varied colors splattered over the wall. Some would fade and some would last for a long time to come. I guess, as I look back over the year, that the shades which I witnessed around me are one that are going to go a long way in my life.

So with the passing of the year 07, one might ask what was special over the year. Well, if I am to sight remarkable achievements to quantify and qualify the time I lived through, then I have none. Apart from the much needed possession of portable music stored onto the revered iPod, I did not gather any thing that’s worth boasting off. Of course I bought books I could brag about but then they merely are honoring the book-shelve much to the discontent of my conscious. And with that I have this confusion, where does the hard-hard earned money go. As for now, I should stop bothering myself much over it, for it’s a perennial question that haunts our survival forever.

I have not grown professionally to garner for my self certificates of achievements and likes of it.

With that I guess, if I would permit someone to look objectively there is nothing to be found of significance in 2007 in my life. Money, Success, Woman, Home, nothing. That just chills my spine.

But putting that aside ,if I were to justify what I have been doing all through the year, I can only give weird experiences and accounts of events I enjoyed. That’s what life’s supposed to be actually, but off-course…. dreams. And looking back I can tell that all the while I have been a spectator to this world around me, ..this peculiar and spectacular world around me.

I remember today about the last new year for 2006. Straight out of the flight on my way to home from Ahmedabad, I got down near the wine shop and grabbed beer can and waited on road side grasping the city preparing for the night. Since that day through this year I have been outdoors just observing. And I observed this while I was stoned Yes may be that’s what I have been doing without forming any judgments. And I cherished watching moments of joy, tribulations and triumphs in lives around me. So if it was from having been generously gifted with the presence of a Roger Water concert for me or watching the Scorpions Humanity tour in the company of people who shared the respect for moments enormity in which wishes come true, I have no complaints. And I remember the nights stolen from clutches of parental concerns, lying over the wet rocks behind Sea-Rock overlooking the sea on dark night, with guitar jamming with rocking waves whence for once I felt a free man. And I remember those evening nights when sitting over the wall near the bandra creek- over looking Worli sky line and its streets glowing under the neon street light …standing over its own reflection. For me, I had my own share of stupid silly adventures. I remember my first blind date wooed over internet and ended up at the Hawaian Shack, over drinks and a India Pakistan 20/20 finals. I wish she would call back so I thank her for a memorable evening and may be make up for hurting honest sentiments. And I remember someone telling me about a punter who driven for passion for a night, ended up getting caught by the disguised lady police. And we laughed over the misadventures. We always laughed at misadventures, that is a joy of youth. Fortunately he bought his freedom. Money buys free will.

And over this year, I saw changes happening around me. I began to keenly observe the smooth transition from carefree youth slowly gearing up to a responsible adult. I recollect the cute friend dressed as a bride. I remember my friend calling up and telling his encounters of his soon to be fiancé. I remember a friend calling from outside beauty saloon while he waited for his wife. Over his year many wickets went down, it felt like standing in a huge big marriage ceremony and I could listen to matured parlance I was till now unaware about. I saw a long suffering friend finding a ray of light at the end of the tunnel and still suffering with the trauma that comes to a pondering traveler at cross roads of life. Many questions and quest still remain to be conquered in the time to come, but this year, Life’s roller coaster ride came with full throttle and I for one see it unfold in its mesmerizing vagaries. But, I must confess, it blossomed this year to find a matured sweetness as in the writings of Twain, Chekov and the likes, all of which I rediscovered this year and these implored me to keep going and keep sifting my sight from one image to another.

All I can tell by the end, is that , I guess over this year I was high all the time and I mean literally. And I cruised over the roads, into the streets, the dungeons, pubs and discos, I flew into the skies and surfed over the waves rising high over Bandra rocks. And it was like a dam of emotions, which broke over me, and the thundering glory of youth fell viciously thrilling the senses. And may be it will take me some time to come back to my senses and welcome 2008. So over 2007 I felt so much, so many mesmerizing images and by the end I felt nothing. And may be in 2008 standing in the midst of white snow capped mountains and cedar trees, with the chilling wind blowing over my face that I would again feel thrilled with my interpretation of success which has started increasing thriving on coming in close proximity of fearless and liberated soul.

All this was I guess was possible it was all in this city, Bombay, aptly called Meri Jaan. For the best of my days after college have been spent here and in this year, where in people came and people passed by and in this year I cannot resist to express my affection which has no boundaries for this city which offered so much to me. So, Whether this city transforms to Shanghai or not, for it progresses or not…I do not care much. I have now got what’s termed as un-conditional love for the city . I love this city for what it was, for what is and for one time I can confidently say for what it will be..coz..it accepted me the way I and showered the best of what it had to offer my fortunate soul. Whenever I have plunged into the city, from the expressway or a touch down of flight, it always took me unto its arms, putting all the restlessness at ease with familiarity of home. And its been a truly magnificent experience as I saw the whole world in Bombay and from Bombay, which redefined meaning to the word love.

So I realized over this year, and tonight, that, wherever I might remain in this world or where our destines land each other, this is one city for which I’ll retain an affection unfound in words. Even if its for the universal necessity to cling on to something, then I’ll choose to cling on to something that for me was a true joy ride and shimmering reflection of life in all quarters comprised of the best of all you wonderful people.