The Thinking Chair

It stood right there in the corner of her room, each morning since she had ever known; it was always there, unwavering, faithful. It was her grandfather’s chair and she remembered climbing onto his lap watching him as he rolled his pipe and settled down to begin a story. The magical quality of the stories was enhanced by their unfolding within those layers of hazy smoke that came from his pipe.
That was a long time ago and since he had passed away the chair was seen as redundant and discarded into her room which was also a makeshift storeroom. She recollected not minding it because it reminded her of him, his tobacco scented breath and the sweet-smell of his beard forever etched in her memory.
Those were some of the best childhood memories she had, the time she spent with him always passed by in a haze and she could keep listening to him for hours. He had the most peculiar way of telling stories, his stories never seemed to have an appropriate beginning or end, they was like one big story of which the smaller stories were instances. She would keep asking him if the story was over and he’d always say, “It’s up to you little one, the story is only finished when you want to hear no more of it.” She remembered thinking about how the story would never end and become like one of the Arabian nights tales because as far as she was concerned, getting tired of any story for her was like getting tired of splashing in monsoon puddles in the heart of Central Street and she surely wasn’t getting tired of that anytime soon.
It made her sigh, childhood fantasies. He called it his thinking chair, he said the chair gave him the inspiration to weave the web of stories and that he wouldn’t have been able to recite a simple tale if he wasn’t sitting on his thinking chair. She had almost believed him and had fervently prayed for its safe return when one of its arm-rests needed repairing and had been sent to the carpenter.
Story-telling had always fascinated her. Conceptualizing another character’s scheme of thoughts had always excited her. After his death, she had tried to gather the courage to give it a try, but being too scared of the outcome, of the very thought that the chair wouldn’t respond to her and refuse to flood her imagination.
It always felt good, thinking of the past, her most intimate joys and insecurities made her feel as good as sipping hot coffee and snuggling into her rug while it rained outside, comforting, that was the word.
She had managed to become a writer, though not a very famous one but she enjoyed her work and that was the only thing that mattered. This visit to her old house to clear out her room because it was being sold, re-introduced her to a world that had been her own, not a very long time ago. This time she decided to give it a try, there was no childish fear anymore, only the inkling of curiosity made her want to give it a shot.
She settled down on the chair and closed her eyes, all she saw was his sparkling face and flashes from the multitude of stories he had told her. At that moment she knew. Under his protective shell of self-sufficiency lay the desire to have a safety net. It had always been her, all his inspiration to narrate stories had been her, her enthusiastic face always ready to get blown away by his tales, and she knew he could have never disappointed her. She was his thinking chair.







This is something i wrote ages ago, figured i must have all that I've written in one place, forgive the violation of space-time.

Desi Mills and Boons

The smell of coconut hair oil and sweat filled the atmosphere. She clamped the door and turned the fan speed to counter the oppressive mass of humidity that had settled. How each sewn mirror on the rajasthani bed-sheet captured the rays of light from the Philips tubelight would be etched in her memory forever.
He drew her closer, his tobacco filled breath overwhelming. The seemingly strong shoulders whose strength she could not gauge broke into hers. His tentative motions made her mind race with uncomparable desire. Flashes of all those moments in such intimacy strengthened her will. She loved herself as she loved him. The times that he drove away into the night, his truck rattling the unpaved roads as it dimmed into the distance always took a part of her away. Never again would it happen. As he buttoned his shirt his face in the partial glow from the beedi in his mouth, she gazed out to the expanse of fields, she would be married the next day. He would never know of her again. It was the last time that she wouldn't be able to tell where she ended and he began.





I love writing stuff like this, its so emotionally charged almost like a Hindi film in a nutshell, man I'm obsessed with theatrics :D

Backdoor Exit

Must write. Must write. Must write.
I feel guilty about creating a blog and not using it. I'm brimming with things to say. I always end up like a dried up river when i sit to write. Music always fills the spaces.
I'm surrounded by too much phoniness all of a sudden. Look. Listen. STOP. Breathe.
How can another post be about nothing, i think.
StickyKeys always turn up when i make a post out of pressing Shift too much, uneasily i wonder where does the sentence begin?
Ideas are never invented, only discovered. Stop asking me anything. I'm disgusted with all the trampling. Thoughts inspire each other yet seem disconnected.
Bhendi Bazaar has a mind of its own. Having survived over 200 years through the rule of the British, the partition of India, the 92 blasts, JJ flyover, it is now tired. "We will now have buildings that reach the sky, a shopkeeper gushes", i dryly wonder if he will recognize himself in the reflection of shiny glass facades. Over a thousand homes with spotless marble and billowing curtains inhabit unbelievably dilapidated structures. Will these homes and families re-develop too? Who makes bhendi bazaar what it is? Is extremity the only solution or is it my fear of Fascism that looks for in-between, intermediate recourse?
Im scared of my incapability, this city deserves something else, something i definitely cannot articulate.
Its the gray areas that disturb the most.







Funny:
Everything is always one notch above my threshold of tolerance.

Misperception

happiness is not a state of mind, its the state of traffic, bowels and yummy food.
freedom is not about not being bound its about being bound comfortably
victory is not about winning its merely the shadow of defeat
love is not a facade, its a momentary lapse of reason
disparity is not helplessness it is an action of complacency
there's no such thing as 'out of the box', its out of one box into another
form is temporary but essence is transient
nothing is not the lack of something, it is the something that fills every void of somethings
some things are not true they're just convenient
justice is the biggest joke mankind cracked
the world is not one, its only 6,692,030,277
music is unattainable not only beautiful
there are no characteristics, only cheap imitations
there are no misconceptions, only perceptions



happy birthday guadalupe :D

Dream of No Sleeping

So one day the daffodils grew and cast their happiness in her eyes,
Her feet found joy in the step of the earth and her arms embraced sunshine
Everyday, every moment, she was theirs and they all wanted to be her
Finally they found peace in her wandering mind
The world ended that day, they all slept waiting for eternity.









And then the lull without promise of a storm, how I long destruction so there's a new way to begin.
Happy New Year

Loving Leh

Step outside your skin
And envelope others
Let it hurt
Let it play
Allow wonder to invade
Strip bare
Feel the disorientation
Not on the outside but when on the inside
Lose the footing
Reel in the delight
Sip familiarity
Bathe in the unpredictable
Convulse in horror
Shiver with ecstasy
Behold in glory
Soak until breakpoint
Lighten with the silence
Gasp for inspiration
Breathe ice
Lick your lips
Touch existence
Love the rarity



My recent trip to Ladakh was by far the best trip I’ve taken in my life, it was absolutely brilliant.

Of cycles, illusions and dashed expectations

Today i awoke with a rock of pain settled at the base of my head and neck, talk about how yesterday's can influence the today's and tomorrow's.
It was an odd day yesterday, final jury always marks the end of a phase, concepts, ideas, drawings, idocyncrasies, stupidness and what-nots. Somehow i was sure it would go well for the class as a whole, its always how things are supposed to end. All the brickbats are thrown at us in the course of the semester and eventually most of us work our butts off for the last leg of the project so it makes perfect sense for it to go well. But alas, the downside of optimism jumps out at you from a dark alley when you're least expecting it.
I felt stripped, helpless, repeating on and on what I'd said to myself for the last whole month, the importance of my project to me, they seemed unconvinced and i tried in vain to establish my case, twice i lashed back like a furious tide but ebbed in diffidence as i saw forces stronger than me subduing my worth. Obviously i placate myself saying that it's always the unresolved things they talk about, but a part of me knows it never reached them, the hesistence i saw when a pencil lingered for a second longer on the column where my work was being reduced to two numerals that would compartmentalise me in relation to all the loves, hates, contradictions, edges, respites, interphases, et al.
On the whole, it was terrible as always. We pretty much are a lost cause. Some of us try, but its just not good enough, never good enough, maybe we'll scrape through and find a comfortable place in mediocrity, maybe that is all we're capable of.
That aside, all the shame and remorse really got the better of me and i yelled my lungs out at some old couple trying to watch "what's your rashee?" in peace because they complained that we were making too much noise, I don't blame them, we are pretty good at masking unpleasantness. I'm sure they didn't sense all the misgivings beneath the hollow laughter and I couldn't believe they were taking that away from us.
Hopefully this shall pass too.

I finshed reading "The Sister of my Heart" by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, lovely fairy-taleish narration as two women battle demons and dungeons to find eternal rainbows only to reveal mythical palaces that dissolve to dust rendering them helpless and in search of the sword of light to banish the darkness of their worlds.

I enjoyed it thoroughly, fantasies being tickled once again in my oh-so-stuck-up life of so-called practicality.