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. 

Project Pathos- 7

For I know, you’ve found me,

And I know,  your reason here
the wretchedness of grief finds me.
to me you come to bury your coldness
the apathy of wailing silence
to find joy from
death of your sorrows.

Will you be able to carry my weight?

The weight of my darkness

Would you have the courage

To dive into me, without a thought

Without a desire

Knowing well what is in store

Is empty obscurity

Of humanness and the divine

Living or the dead

But I will know, how to keep you alive

By demanding

And I shall demand, of every thing

That you have within

To keep you alive,

To keep you dead travelling

To beyond

Without hope, without desire

And I’ll speak to you,

And I shall sense you

Hear thoughts by your smell

Let me tell you again

I hate the smell of fear

Fear of the unknown

And the wise man will

Tell you the escape from me

Is from within your fear

And wonder you shall about the unknown

That is me and

You shall be free

And liberated from me

For I detest the faltering steps

This tunnel shall seize

And you’ll have the blinding light,

Light all around

And I this your very darkness

Shall part you, forever.

And remember I had nothing to offer you.

But I was the other side.

P.S: Darkness

Project Pathos-6

Today, we travel into tomorrows night,
yesterday we had slept for todays dawn,

each day into this mist-laden horizon,

a dream is cherished, a memory foregone.

The First Funeral

A strange subject to choose. And why would I choose it, I don’t know. Have just visited the first funeral, cremation of my life. May be that could be the reason?. May be, I am actually indifferent, trying to kill time, thinking about it. Coz, in all aspect, I don’t really think, I knew this man. He was to me, I guess an elderly gentleman at office, that’s what I would think of him. An acquaintance, so to say, who, I believe, was never selfish with me, rather, quite mannered and I know, with kind wellbeing at heart. Not that this is to create melodrama about it. But I guess, it was at his funeral pyre, when people who knew him, look at him in hindsight, every one sounded quite genuine, about his good nature.

Well, to get on with business, this gentleman was a colleague, in his 45’s I suppose, who would I guess, go out with a cup of tea in this hand, with no qualms whatsoever approach a new guy, exchange niceties and have introductions exchanged, and then get on to do doing his job. And every one admitted till date, that he was diligent like none other and may be a little too much. And I guess, he served our organization for more than 15 or may be more years. Leading a very disciplined life, both professional and personal.
As for mine and his exchanges, mostly I remember, me and my colleague returning after smoking, through the corridors, and he would meet us and without fail, smile and frequently tell us to quit smoking. At the lunch table, everyone would pull his legs, coz of his discipline, chastity, regularity, abstinence from all the vices of smoking, drinking and non-vegetarianism all through his life- till date. And he would smile and smile, and occasionally try to fight back. But never I found him loose his soft spoken composure.
It was today, I came to know, from the fellow colleague, who since his last two years of stint in Mumbai, has being coming along with his sir , Dhaval Bhai. Regularly, he would pick him up from their fixed meeting point and drive down to office. So, I was told, Dhaval bhai, would carry Parle G packets, or may be something else, and at signals, give it out to children. Once in a while, he would carry little fodder and feed the calves near the turning of his building.
As for leading a personal life, it was only today that I was told that his schedule included, getting up early morning 5 o clock, do yoga and meditation. For 10 days in a year, he would go to Mount Abu and attend some meditation course. In today’s day, many of my age might be tempted to mock at it, but in my opinion he considered this as a part of his disciplined life, as if with complete confidence in right things to do.
Well, to me, it all today seemed like a listening to stories of Parsi Bawaji in hay days of Mumbai, who are fanatically regular about the morning tea and bun and the news paper and firm believers in a decorm and order of life. Almost, picture perfect.
Well, Dhaval bhai, died in his sleep in the morning. It was a heart stroke, he didn’t cry, and there was no one around him in his final moment. He had attended, a conference call yesterday till 7, went home, had dinner and went to sleep. He was not found awake till morning 7-8 , till his brother a little concerned with the irregularity, went to his room and found him at rest- forever.

They declared it was stress related heart failure.
By the way, I didn’t mention, he was never married and had chosen to stay bachelor. Sometimes, at his bachelor hood, people would pull his leg , in off course good humor at lunch table. His parents had expired long back. He was not survived by any immediate family , just three brothers. It felt quite sad, that he actually didn’t have many people around him, one might say thats “good” in a way that one would not have to be burdened with worries about family. But I guess, dying alone with no one at funeral , seemed a little sad also.
For his term in company he had many good stalwarts. One person, on his retirement age, who sits next to him, our favorite Parsi sir, stood tall, in his French beard, a little stooped, and I remember him telling out, “ Brilliant death for a wrong age” . By the time, the cremation stopped, I was pretty much silenced by the cremation of a body with such strong flame going to ashes. Then our sir said, “ Chalo, its all over”.
It was quite shocking news in the morning when I had entered office. Within 12 hours I suppose, one person , an identity just went to oblivion- whatever one might call it, dust to dust , ashes to ashes, but in the end just evaporated.
As for me, I just wrote it coz I felt like writing it. Life and death are always mystifying, will remain so, as long as we are human.
P.S : Pray he rests in peace.

Project Pathos -5

Time, I have been with you
This long and so much less
To build upon a life
Full of lies

And I have walked the road
All alone and with a few
For a long journey
to an end where it all dies

Music, I have tried to write
A sweet note, a small rhyme
For a song
I could keep on your shrine

Love, I have tried to gain
Into sadness of your eyes
For the reflection
Of dreams which beguiled.

P.S: Gist.

Project Pathos- 4

On these streets I have traversed many times,
Behind the corridors the days were spent yawning
Waiting for the weekend evening to dawn

Now the years have flipped by
And moments have stretched, grown old
It’s something to do with memories, so, now I am told

There was moment, across the road,
A coffee corner, where the youth used to stroll,
Now it s busy corner, fancy cars parked for fancy grocery store

From few miles ahead, you can smell the sea
Hear her roar,
it is still the same and better than the musk, I am asked to adore

Further ahead, the minarets stand over the islet
Isolated from the crowd of land, peaceful abode in the sea
By its side, its now crowded
I can hear over the voice of ocean,
the lovers, the old, gossiping, whispering, talking loud
and here and there a few lost in thoughts, I am sure
wondering of times that used to be.

PS: Haji Ali

Project Pathos- 3

Reasons to these songs,
Words of hope, deep despair
Standing in the midst of clouds
Trails of dancing threads

Touch me at heart
With Pieces of broken glass
Something for me, something sweet heart
The shining glitter, something to last

Reasons to these times,
Colors of red, bows and arrows
Racing purpose into the dark
masking the deepening sorrows

Touch my mind
With twigs of feathers
Sweet dreams, sweet dreams sweet heart
Slip the whiskey, pour this night to my jaded jar

Reasons for my substance
Colors of blue,
Swim into the air to the crimson hue
Waking up to a child’s curious glance

Seep into my heart
With some flowery thoughts
Sweet hunger, just raise my pain
Let me hear the whispers of dreams
Sleepless or sleeping or may be just slain.

PS: Images.

Project Pathos- 2

Do you feel liberated
Burning free yet again
Tell me honey in this night
How do you taste the salt in the rain

Tell me how does it feel
Does it feel the same
Oh baby in the shadows
Can you see the names written on sand

Oh can you hear
Hear the sound shrieking out so so loud
The sun light
Trying to breach, breach this mist to touch
Only to touch your sweet hands.

Oh did I tell you
I had no one to blame
I had no one to blame

PS: Eternal Sunshine.

Project Pathos - 1

Dance so I think
Let s dance, but to whom,
Should I link
Is it you tonight,
Or my joy for losing you

Hear the guitar playing
In to the thundering skies
Soft Swing to the flute
Playing into these,
These glittering eyes.

Seducing to this morning
As the dawn embraces the cold night
Sound rising with a gentle touché
on the piano scales
the lasting sweetness of lips
it Holds the moment tight.

A moment is passing
Don’t dare leave me darling
Breeze is flowing wild,
Into the silence,
Rambling waterfall of memories
Into this dark night.

P.S: Dusk and the deep willows.

Requiem

Into the skies a dimension opens wide
The rising of the night sky
Into the darkness,
Shines a million eyes

Under this time,
We walk alone,
Into this cold
As the mist tears to fall and fly

Into this wild the whispers cry
Into this stillness silence flies
Into our corners,
You and I

Look over Our crimes

Last flight of music

The day he sat. Wondering about life. In such simple terms an understatement unknown to him as he mingled in the crowd of reasons. And of music that was mesmerized both with romance and sustaining dreams sinking into horizon of reality and desire.

It was a crazy night.

It was a crazy night. She told me, she would call up. I have been waiting now, for like ages. Trying to keep my anxiety and anger at bay. Once you let excitement and fear creep in, they just take the grip of your life, in an unusual, choking way. Making you insecure and afraid and always on the toe with the thoughts and imagination preoccupied with worries. We live in that sort of the world. So I am trying my best to keep the other wise dark curious thoughts about time at safe distance. It’s a pace, I cannot keep up with, and I wish it would stay still. But, I know, it has a slithering speed.

There is an occasional burst of over excited questions, which spring up in the head. Just the like sudden rise and rustling of the curtains as the wind unexpectedly makes its way into the room.

“We are floating like winds”, he had said. Remembering those words brings smile to my face. It was a cold and chilling night. When I look back at it now, I guess death circled that night making wheezing sounds through the rustling leaves and the cracks of the old decrepit wooden door. The door, that emptiness of the room, the silence temporarily for a short while enveloped us together. It is probably the context of the situation, that immortalizes the words, the scene. We can’t remember the faces but the memory remains imbued in its gray shade.

Well how good are the memories there worth. Just a notion of what is past. A whimsical figment of imagination that remains imbued into time. Like trail of life’s presence, to define the course of journey and the abstractness of time. Like a face, chasing its form into a mirror. Existing for no other reason but only to define value attached to the worth of a moment.

But there has to be plot in the theater. And there has to be silence in the words. Even the winds and the oceans and the dreams shall gently come to rest. And the motion shall seize to exist into pristine purity of silence and darkness. In perfect stillness and in peace the earth shall stand. For one moment, desire shall gasp a lonely wish and the moment shall sink into the past.

And he wrote a few notes, words sneaking to the underbelly of seduction. One towards death.