Someday

Regularly
We clean up
The debris
Around
The eye of the storm
And sweep it
Under the carpet

Regularly
We take out for a wash
The skeletons hidden inside
Dust the wardrobe
The bleached bones old and new
And put it back in fresh as a dew

Someday
The skeletons will see
The salvation they seek
Resolutions
Absolving of guilt

Someday

Until then
Regularly
We clean

Advertisements

Dear beloved absentee,

Thank you so much. You are teaching me so much by being absent. So many meaningful life lessons.

Thank you so much. You are teaching me so much by being absent. So many meaningful life lessons.

You’ve taught me that there will be times when you have to single handedly hold on to the threads of the relationship in this tug of war with loss. You let go, and you lose—you lose so much. But if you hold on, oh the joy it could bring!

But at other times , you taught me that there will be times when it’s important to let go. For what is a better teacher than loss. Sometimes, it’s the very loss of something that brings you closer to it. That brings you closer to me.

Then, there’s the lesson you’ve taught me about the different types of effort, pain, and hurt. The pain that holding on brings, and the hurt that letting go carves in your being.

How different are they!

Yet, like an investment, one reaps a return at the end of the waiting holding period. And the other, like a mindless expense, takes you on the road to debt and liabilities. Baggage too. So much extra baggage on your shoulders that may be uncalled for.

Oh, and thank you for introducing me to Hope—she’s a frustrating but happy person whom you want and don’t want to be around. Hope, who keeps whispering in your ears about fortunes yet to be unlocked at the end of this tiring, hard level. Hope—the likes of which keeps a gamer going on and on despite tired hands and eyes. It’s the fire that’s lit in your soul that eggs you on, doesn’t it?

But a request—can you help me keep Disappointment away? He keeps whispering in my other ear that Hope is lying. That maybe, letting go would be easier. That maybe, there isn’t much to hold on to. Maybe you can take him away with you to whatever far away place you’re lost in. He’s tiring. Very much so.

By God, you’ve taught me this big lesson—the power of memory to reconfirm and reaffirm your decisions. For sometimes, it’s not about what lies at the end of the dark tunnel. Sometimes, it’s about what you had in the past and what you really really really dream for in the next chapter of your life.

Thank you for reminding me that I’m in this because of what I want, and what I want to give—not just because of what I’ll get in the future. For aren’t you with a friend because of a deep love you feel for them instead of what they do for you?

And most importantly, this valuable lesson—deep inside me lies a lava of fiery power and strength. To keep aflame the fickle lights of want. To assuage in a vacuum. To keep adding threads extending this thin bond. To carry on.

Lots of love and strength,

Someone who awaits your return

Who teaches you to come back?

Travel—it’s a common theme these days. So many of the inspirational posts doing the rounds these days are about letting go of the vagaries of life and travelling.

Travel to your heart’s content. Travel until your feet can’t move anymore. Travel until your heart expands to fit the whole world in. And then, travel some more, they say.

It’s a beautiful concept. And travel one must.

But who will teach you to come back home?

Home with it’s chores and daily schedules. Who will remind you of their urgencies and the reason why you withstood the painpoints?

Home with it’s shackles and binds, heating your skin up that was, until a split second ago, cold from the breeze blowing against you on the tall cliff.

Home with it’s dull grey skies and polluted city centres, where only the young and foolish think they’re free. Wasn’t it not too long ago until you were one of those?

Home, where the parties have come to an end and the after-parties only rise and ebb in the chorus of the sonorous snores.

Home, where the 5.00 am alarm rings you, and you don’t jump out, excited about chasing the sun rise from the east. No, instead you drag your feet to the bathroom and drape yourself in the anonymity of dreary clothes.

Where all texts you get are from colleagues and a handful of friends left in the drainage pipe, ready to ride away the time train. Not, from friends made a few minutes back, making excited plans to discover a pristine hidden beach or get up close to a tall mountain peak.

No. How do you get back?

When all you’re faced with is the list of compromises you made to stabilize reality. When you have to relive the decisions—the friends cut off, the people you retain; the habits newly formed at the behest of old ones gone. Everything that formed the new skin you sew for yourself over time, shedding bits and pieces of the old one again and again, minutes and hours at a time.

Will you agree with each of those?

Would you take the time to mourn what you left behind long before you travelled? But adhere to what’s left?

Or will you rethink your life, change the compromise that’s no more comfortable, and chase after what you decided to leave behind?

How do you answer all your questions about yourself, the people and the world around you, when all you’re expected to do is be normal…again?

And so, you escape. You relive your travels again and again in your mind, avoiding the realities unfolding before your eyes. You forget the life you’re living, and love the past, holding onto it with a desperate vigour, all the while being painfully aware that those memories are fading.

Going, going…. Gone.

There. Now you’re back to reality.

Or are you?

Would you…

Would you hate someone in their presence or love/miss them in their absence?

For the truth is, you can love some people only when there’s enough space. Sometimes, getting close gets too close, like walking over people…in a stampede. And distance, well, it’s like a breath of fresh air, oxygen without which the bond can’t survive.

Tell me, would you rather like a person without loving them, or love them without liking them?

The world we live in tells us to choose the other, for what’s greater than love? Even if it comes at the cost of great strife and quarrels. Fights and insults, are but an extension of love. But tell me, wouldn’t you rather chose peace? Wouldn’t you rather want a person because you like them, because of a strong kinship, rather than be forced to be with them because of an impestuous force called love? Maybe it lacks animated passion, but it’s full of understanding and selfless empathy.

Would you rather spend nights awake in the misery of love or sleep peacefully having known none? For if you’ve never tasted it, you’d never know the high highs or the low lows that it can bring about, don’t you think?

Then why does the world tell us to prefer love over caring kinship? Except for this beautiful beautiful piece

Who do you want to be?

‘Who are you?’ and more importantly, ‘Who do you want to be?’ and ‘Can you change who you are and instead, be who you want to be?’

Who am I?

All my life, I’ve been plagued by this question. I remember, even as a child of 6 or 7, I used to stand in a corner, look up at the sky and have a conversation with an invisible entity I thought was God. Those conversations were a lot about who I was.

These days, though, the question is followed by another, almost like those after quakes that continue to wreak havoc after a big earthquake—Who do I want to be?

And instead of finding the answer to either or both, I end up gauging and valuing the merit and weight of one question against the other.

Let me give you some context—it’ll explain the connection with Friendship’s Day (celebrated in India on the first Sunday of August)


After 5 long years, I changed my job in April. For me, a lot of my identity is associated with my work. Not my designation or job profile, mind you. I am talking about my work. It consumes me, enthrals me, excites me and fulfils me in a way that few understand. It is one of the most important aspects of my life. And I realised its importance in life only until recently when I reached a cross-point.

Until then, I was a writer, an editor and then, a content strategist—someone who understands content, comes up with ideas, and a plan of action for delivery. But, I was a writer first. It was part of my identity. Words mattered a lot to me. Naturally, my blog too flourished during such a time.

Recently, it’s been a change of sorts. Am I in content? Yes. But is that all I do? No. Is that all I want to do? Am I still a writer first? I don’t know.

I am learning so many things far beyond the purview of ‘content’ or ‘writing’. I am learning so many new facets of my own being. And it’s oh-so-fulfilling!

To learn is to live. To learn and apply is to live an enriching life. To do all this with enough freedom and space is the highlight of my very existence. And luckily for me, I am in an environment that allows me to thrive.

In a lot of ways, it’s completely incomparable to the previous 5 years. Yes, I learnt and learnt and grew over the years. But did I push myself? Only to meet time-bound deadlines and deliveries. What I learnt came naturally to me. It was organic a growth.

Today, though, I completely (and have the thirst to) deep-dive into a world that is fairly alien to me. I want to learn and grow far beyond what I can imagine. And thus, I push—I push myself every day to learn more, do more and grow more. In more ways than one, it’s not organic.

So, I made a conscious choice to keep my social life at bay. I made the choice to have a single-point focus on learning and working. Anything else—dance, music, arts, parties, celebrations—can wait until I emerge from this cocoon, hopefully as a caterpillar-turned-into-a-butterfly.

From 7 in the morning to 10 in the night, I am consumed by work. It’s not always a hectic schedule at work. But I am still inhaling and exhaling work during those slow hours. Weekends go by thinking, planning and number-crunching data (another new-found love!)

The last one week has been a little bit of a break of sorts. And the vortex that used to be my brain thanks to work has turned into a calm sea—the kinds you’d gaze at for hours trying to decipher its depth and meaning. Ergo, the introspection.

Who am I?

Who do I want to be?

Do I really want to be the person who refuses to balance life and work? Who meets friends once in a month or two and turns into a recluse? If being solitary comes so naturally to me, was I always the extroverted social person who enjoyed going out?

What if this is all just a phase? What if my loved ones turn bitter and a huge chasm develops that I can never bridge? What if I come to regret the loss of friendships over the years?

One part of my mind says those who love you have already been through your cycles. They know you and accept you irrespective of your infrequent disappearances.

The other part of my mind says that it’s not just acceptance. It’s consistency that keeps a relationship alive—the shared experiences that thicken a bond over time.

And all this hits a peak at a time when I see friends and family share Friendship Day messages around me.

I can’t bring myself to wish anyone or thank them for their friendship—not when I am aware of how I pushed all this away in the past two-three months; certainly not when I plan to continue doing so for the next few months too. But all said, the pangs strike—to reach out, hug, and convey just how much my loved ones mean to me. Especially when they hold on and continue to love me despite my distance.


Amidst all this, I realise just how much writing has and used to help me.

Earlier, I had built strong, fortified walls around me that stopped me from communicating my heart’s deepest desires. Writing, then, helped me observe, process, and convey what I thought and felt.

Today, I seem to have evolved thanks to the unending conversations with few of my closest peoples (yes, peoples. Plural. They belong to different groups). Today, it’s a lot more ok for me to observe, communicate and rationalise what I feel—verbally, and not in writing. Ergo, I rarely take to writing.

This makes me wonder—was I ever a writer? Was writing merely an outlet? Or did I write because it was who I was—as a person?

Does it mean I am no longer a writer?

Who was I?

Who am I?

And most importantly: Do I want to be that person who is a writer?

Lady Gaia

An attempt at poetry after years of dry spell

Lady Gaia
In peace, she rests
With a Velveteen cover
Of bright green hues
Dark green lace
Rotund mounds and humps of dew
On a Bed of blue
Pillows of white
Chirping music in the background
Lovely fragrance
Of lush nature
Whiff of tea, lemon grass and pinecones
And whatever wild trees are made of
Light brown veins
Carry her lifelines
Who she let’s live on her
Caring, caressing
Sometimes they tickle
Sometimes they poke
Most of the times they scurry around
Unlike her other multilegged sows
They savour. They support
Her body like she does their life
The two-legged ones, though
Don’t treat her right
But a mother is as a mother does
On she loves
On she leaves
With peace, she let’s them be

Legacies of life

Man has an innate need to leave some part of him behind; a legacy of his life. He wants to remind the future generations that he existed. That he still exists—be it in memory or through art. And this can be seen in the beautiful structures, monuments, art and literature. Go back to the oldest cave paintings in the world and you’ll see a person desperately reaching out to the future with his/her hand paintings.

However, a friend of mine has an interesting theory. In India, we don’t appreciate creation as much. That’s why in the heritage places, we rarely get to see the name of the architect. No, we only know who commissioned these monuments. Contrast this to the West when you know the names of the architect. Heck, in Spain, we even knew the names of the people who melded the gorgeous wrought-iron pieces!

Don’t believe me? Ask around, who designed the Taj Mahal? Who designed the Vitthal Temple in Hampi with it’s intelligent architecture? And intelligent it is. The complex had a main building which was for performances to the God. You didn’t to carry instruments. Each pillar was designed to produce music of a particular instrument. Literally!

And then there were the side buildings like these with their intricate carvings, each telling a story and a story within a story! Take this building for example, there was a miniature carved on each side. It’s like the architect wanted to set in stone is very blue print! But the beauty is in the whole.

After all, each part—even the platforms at the bottom—have a thought behind them. One layer to hold lamps, one layer to convey how people of different regions and countries come to trade in Hampi, etc. There’s also the creative creature with parts of different animals.

This is why I love Guides and archeologists. So much gets lost in translation between the past, present and the future. Whatever little we know of, is because of the archeologists who painstakingly find meaning in dirt. And the guides who convey it to us mere humans.

They offer the spectacles you need to look around with clear sight.