Pray for this day, today
my strength, my religion
Pray, for the day, someday
my clarity,my tomorrow

A typhoon, universal gratitude and a somewhat lost me.

I have watched enough movies to know that the slightest of hunch about a thing going awry, particularly when related to death by accidents, comes true. So, it was obvious when I heard about a typhoon in Hong Kong, I wanted to reschedule my flight. But such convenience was not to come my way, perhaps the universe wanted me to become more resilient, withstand higher degrees of turbulence, or just simply perish. As the hope of traveling on another date due to closure of reservation office dwindled, paranoia escalated. I battled that by promptly sleeping for three quarters of the flying time. The captain assured us of a bumpy albeit safe journey. But bless the man for he landed us amidst torrential rain and heavy storm cloud cover onto a runway that materialized out of the choppy seas all too suddenly but at the right moment. The landing alleviated my impending sense of doom which had resurrected itself as I had come back to consciousness after the slumber. Now all I needed to do was to eat an overpriced meal at the airport, buy a bus ticket and be off on the last leg of the journey.

Things however did not materialize as I had so brilliantly planned. The bus services had been cancelled, the tropical storm warning had reached 8, and If I didn’t hurry the trains too would be overcome by inertia and wouldn’t budge from Hong Kong. I hurried to get a taxi, as luck would have it, the guy knew only two words in English, thankfully one of them was ‘Danger’ , so I knew exactly how to feel on the ride to the train station. The rain swirled all around, and the taxi swayed sideways, which was the drivers cue to blurt out the word danger repeatedly. Even though the bridges were off limits, half the roads inaccessible, and my mind was running amok with huge tsunami like waves crashing on top of the taxi, I reached the station in time to catch the afternoon train to Guangzhou. But I wish the transition from the taxi to the train seat was as effortlessly brought out as the last sentence. When you add a person with my gait, and four pieces of luggage weighing more than me to the equation, the result is, well, nothing short of a miracle.

So I’d like to thank the man who helped me load on the luggage onto the X-ray machine, the people behind me who didn’t squirm or push when they crawled behind me as I struggled to maintain balance, walk, and push giant pieces of luggage onto the escalator, and the kind, kind man who helped me put on the above mentioned luggage on to the carriers in the train, and who broke his glasses in the process. Eternal gratitude is what I feel, and perhaps this is the only way I can express it. Xie, Xie all.

The end of an era

How do you fit your entire life into two bags? Your whole twenty three years of existence, your memories, your thoughts, your belongings? How do you say goodbye to the place you called home your whole life? Such a tirade of questions, few answers though.

There are some goodbyes which happen because they must and no number of wars waged against them delay their occurrence. There are some which happen suddenly, like an untimely death or an impromptu official trip, and then there are some which are carefully planned, meticulously thought about, goodbyes that have been ruminated over for a while, stewed in their own intensity, and are thus gulped and swallowed into the pit of reality ever so slowly. That is my goodbye, a heady, heavy feeling of loss that has become a part of my being now. It was premeditated, the consequences known. When I decided that this is something I need to do, I went through the final few days several times in my head. I’ve already shed my tears, and my heart has felt heavy many times now. I feel relieved somewhat. Even if I do get overwhelmed on that fateful day, I will be prepared.

Change is universally unwelcome usually, not here though, not by me. It is daunting at first, difficult to traverse, it throws curve balls your way, and you’re caught off guard most times, but that is exactly what endears me to it. It is my tonic for survival; it is what I do to break free. It is what I need to dream. It is what makes me say goodbye today.

Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been -
A sound which makes us linger; - yet - farewell!
~Lord Byron

Search for my puddle

This surrogate life, that I live, tells me I’m not to live it, this isn’t my life. I watch as raindrops fall down in slow motion onto the ground, into their personal little puddles, and wonder where my personal puddle is. Has it dried up or did it not exist in the first place?
The raindrops are fortunate; they have somewhere to be, a place where they can return to their form. No wonder they do their sanguine dance with such flamboyance. Enthralling us all. They know their personal puddle awaits them.

Wind Of Nostalgia

As yellow leaves fall down between the pages of the book I read, I look up the sky that filters through between the spread of the trees. I sit on one of the benches in college, two years since I studied there last. The sights I see, the surroundings, are ever the same, yet so different.

If I close my eyes I can picture the familiar faces milling around campus, amidst these familiar surroundings. How is it that human life is so transient where as the things around me stand transfixed, a witness to the journey? Perhaps they undertake a journey too, maybe these very things that stand transfixed in their existence have changed as well.

A moment in time is an amalgamation of the people and their surroundings, all intertwined together. Their existent together makes for that very instance. When I look at the trees that have stood here all through, in my presence, outside my presence, I realize that they have changed. The leaves that they shower on me are not the same I walked on two years ago. The yellow leaves that the wind brings my way have a different rustle to them. The buildings and classrooms are inhabited by a different set of people. How could they ever be the same?

Reminiscing comes easily to me and it is reminiscing about the small frivolous bits that makes me feel most nostalgic. It isn’t the grand bash that I miss or the day I got my result that I think about. It’s the walk down the road that leads to college that I want resuscitate , it’s the pages of the book I read while bunking class that I want to browse through again, it’s the laughter of my friends, that I want to hear, as I picture myself running away from mocha the resident college dog.

All through life people yearn for those big moments. A supreme accomplishment or that much sought after accolade won, that we could narrate to our grandchildren someday. But really, it is the mundane little things we disregard in the very instant of their occurrence, that we seem to remember two years hence. Believe me, it’s all about the song you hummed while driving to college, the flutter of the heart at an inadvertent gaze, the folding of jeans to wade through puddles and sharing that hot cup of coffee on a cold winter morning

The Passport Chronicles

5 Steps to easy application for an Indian passport:

The quest for passport acquisition. It promises such dreams, realization of plans of travel to exotic lands, and the much needed identity proof in this cosmopolitan global age. For me though, it was just a frustrating realization that the visa sheets are indeed all stamped up and no future travel can be embarked upon without an additional booklet. So with all the documents in order (or so I thought) I decided to accomplish this task and thus began the most enlightening three hours of my life

1. The Complete Addle-ment

On arrival (forty five minutes before the counters are to open) I am confronted with multiple winding queues that seem to have no start or an end. I look around everywhere standing in the middle of the road for a board or assistance personnel but all I can see are more confused people. But atleast they have water bottles. I convince myself to break the inertia and start moving around the general area, I remember some instructions which were uttered to me, they seem hazy and grey, but the words “queues at the back” seem to emerge victorious and I can literally imagine a light bulb popping somewhere in my vicinity as I rush to the rear of the building. To my horror, I see more serpentine queues, the giant grey building seems to have grown tentacles that seem to be encroaching on to edge of the compound, then on meeting the wall, they turn and start growing in the emptiness, multiplying by the second. Every time I look away and then look back, the tentacly-queue seems to have grown. There is no time to think or wait. I must do something now. But the profound questions is, What exactly?

2. Enter the Tout

I think the likes of touts have come to thrive because of little girls who are totally lost in environment described above. No wonder Shri Gopal, sensing my discomfort rose to the occasion assuring me of getting the mandatory Affidavit which I’d conveniently ignored from my documentation to bypassing the meandering course of the queues. For a meager fee of Rupees eight hundred of course. The notary fee is separate, might I add.

We walked, we braved the stray dogs, we got the affidavit, and the notary obviously doesn’t have much work to do apart from signing affidavits for complete randoms.

Shri Gopal had a lovely gentleman waiting in queue for us while we were trying to accomplish the unthinkable (the affidavit bit), on return to the compound bursting to seams with human queues, I was made to stand in place of Shri Gopals lovely gentlemanly friend. He tells me to stand in front of an ‘ uncle’- a man I’d never seen before, and wait for my turn at the window. I start counting the number of people behind me, in order to calculate the price of skipping each position in the queue. There are a good 50 people behind me. Had I just handed out sixteen rupees to each individual ( or offered them a coke) , in exchange for their position in the queue, I would have been here, same place, having performed a great deal of social service in the process. Ah well, if only all entrepreneurial initiatives could come to life.

3. In the midst of the serpentine melee

So what do you do when ‘uncle’ behind you fails to come to terms with his decibel level and the existence of ears of others? In a mere five minutes, I know his entire familys’ first name. His daughter isn’t exactly soft spoken either who intermittently comes in to check on the progress of the queue. I wish someone would tell her that it hasn’t managed to move an inch since the attendant who is supposed to be at the window is on a prolonged tea break or is absconding. Whatever takes your fancy.

A fight breaks out in one of the other queues, I hear a scuffle, some agitated voices. The security guard next to our queue is urged to go and settle the issue, but he seems to be either suffering from some form of ear dysfunction or information assimilation disorder for in reply he assures us that the window would open soon. People give up. I shut my gaping mouth. The tout is MIA.

4. Directions through ESP

I have a new identity. I am token number 15. I look at it with sheer happiness inside my heart. But then reality dawns, I don’t know where to go next. I try to look as confounded and confused as I can, so some person feeling super helpful would stop by and ask me If I need help. This doesn’t work. So I take a round of the building, asking around guards and looking for some kind of board that would guide me to the realms of clarity. My respite comes in the form of a gentleman, who on being asked tells me that I am to go inside the building, into hall number one. Of course, hall number one! It all seems to be a breeze now, I confidently walk in and settle down on the chairs in front of the huge electronic board which seems to be belching out numbers in red. I make small talk with the kind lady on my right.I look at the board intermittently as I ask the lady about her work and her family. She volunteers information willingly. She is married. I am taken aback for I had passed her off as a college student. She has children. She has TWO children. And she is a housewife. I volunteer my meager details in return. I have nothing to offer really. Stale job. No family by virtue of marriage. The ‘ uncle’ from the queue joins us, oddly enough he seems to be happy to see the gang from the queue outside the building and gleefully points us out to his wife. We exchange token numbers, and settle down in the endless wait.

5. The counter relay

So I am indeed called to a counter. But that’s not it! I am harshly reminded that I need to fill in some details. When I look at the form, the blank space asking for husbands name stares up at me. I look at it more blankly. Then the kind sir, tells me that the identity proof is also absconding.
Oh well.I walk, I brave the stray dogs, and get a photocopy of my drivers license. Then a gory wait begins. A baby cries. A lady jostles me to the side. An over enthusiastic girl points out that a particular is incomplete. I mumble a thank you. It’s my turn and I’m parceled off to counter number eight. Counter number eight then shuns me to counter number seven and half. Some signatures and nods occur, I’m thinking perhaps now, I'm done. But then the file is shoved in my hands and another counter is fated for me. I’m asked to produce money. I do it quickly lest he ask me to move to another counter for delaying the same. The nods of head look more promising this time around; maybe it is actually the end of the counter mania. The cashier hands me a green coloured receipt. I look at him. I look at it. It says collect on 4/8. I ask the words hesitantly “ Ho gaya?” - Is it done?. He nods without looking up. I’m stunned. I walk out in a daze.

I love this storm, Why don't you?

There is this storm, it’s here and there. Its really everywhere. Sometimes outside, sometimes within.
I am not quite sure if it’s a portent of the good or the bad. Adage says it’s a symbol of things going awry; it’s a symbol of turmoil, an indication of bad times to come.
My heart tells me it’s just a bunch of clouds blocking the sun, it allows me to look at the sky without the usual beads of perspiration on my forehead, I’m free from the squinting eyes.
I see people running, taking shelter. I stand there transfixed. I find myself getting drenched. I close my eyes. I let the storm swirl all around. My heart flutters a little, and then beats steady.
The turmoil of the storm churns me up. It takes me to thoughts and moments I’ve never experienced before. It rids me of the inertia, it propels me to explore.
The gusts of wind, with their mighty force crash into me, against me, instigating action. The rain seeps into my pores. It creeps out the inaction.

I look up to the sky, I wait for another storm.

Silly, Stupid Heart

I’ve wrapped my heart in butcher paper, and told it to wait. There Is no point to its beating, no need to carry so much weight.

I’ve let it subdue from its convivial self, and I’ve coaxed it sit tight. I beseech it to not skip a beat, when the words said are right.

I will it to cease from aching, after all this effort that’s been made. For all the joys and tribulations, I don’t think it likes this trade.

Someday perhaps, I’d unwrap it so and let it flutter again, my vulnerable little heart, that beats for everyone, under all this mountain of pain.

Lets Make obscene Sounds, Lets Shout!

I am in the mood to say sod off today. Having reached the conclusion that anger is better than sadness, and shouting better than being morose, the garb of demureness is being shunned and the tails of acrimonious, venomous words being clutched, as they prepare for their launch into the oh-so-unprepared world.

What is the point, If I may pose a question to everyone, of grieving when wronged? Does the wrongdoer have any inkling of the silent sniffling that is being carried out in the dark corners, the tissues that are being littered all across the floor with silent promises to self of cleaning up later? Does the sorrow do anything but cast more cement into your already heavy heart? These rhetorical questions have been my muse of late.

Such inspiration seldom comes one’s way. Shove the sniffles, embrace the spontaneous yelling. Amen.

To the dreamer...

This is dedicated to 2 very special people in my life, who have been my dream rechargers of late, in this very very turbulent time.

You are a Dreamer. These thoughts that weigh you down, need to be unfettered, this moment that hangs like an ominous cloud needs to shower just this once and disperse. Compel the forces that work in tandem to abash the dream to exit, order the dream to pervade.May this be a moment to reckon with, a reality check of sorts, a time to believe, that everything you do, all that is your existence will take you towards that very dream...your new reality.

May the eloquentless of this inspiration instill the will to laugh at my pretentiousness, but that was MY dream for today...:)

PS: ' All that we are is a result of what we have thought' Buddha