The Morning Blues

When it struck 11 in the night, the noise woke me up from the feverish sedation. I had been down with a very bad chest infection and body pain.

My roommates were busy setting the special new year dinner they prepared. A few sat in the corner playing pranks over phone while few others were singing their way to glory. There were two bucket full of water filled balloons. (Grinning) that's a festival which happen in the crowded bachelor streets of Dubai on the new year's eve - Anyone who walks down the road would be hit by water balloon meteors showering from the balconies.

They say, this time the fun was killed when those Ethiopian Seductress who run the Sheesha cafe by the lane came with rotten eggs. All the screaming and shouting gave way to pin-drop silence when finally the police arrived. All doors were shut and guys were back to their personal spaces. 

Scrolling through the twitter timeline on mobile, there was  a egoistic competition of claiming their witness over the fireworks that happened at different corners of Dubai. There were a few photographers known to me who were even posting the pictures live. I felt so helpless to express my 'what the hell attitude'. Being heavily doped by the anti-biotics I stayed silent over my double decker bed. There was this feeling to write since then, but it took me another five hours to scribble down. My writing has deteriorated over the past many months. I got carried away by my photo projects. Still mumbling over that confusion at the forked road.

Later in the night, I stayed listening when one of the room-mates vented out his woes from past. Times when he woke up to see the utensils floating over the water that swept in their house. When he and his Dad built their hut out of the woven leaves, when his mother's saree turned out to be the window pane.

And now when the dawn breaks up, I'm to watch the Bengali Movie Kashmakash from Rituparna Gosh.

(ending up this unworthy note with a sigh. they say life is gonna change from this very morning)

Tailor made smiles: for sale

Time creeps on a feverish day. I got a very bad sore throat and body pain. My eyes are red and hands numb. Sensing the pain in each drop of saliva swallowed, I stay wondered on the revolving-retracting comfort of my office chair.

I'm to go home next week and what is awaiting me is the huge book of unwritten rules authored by the society since years.

Rule 1: Being an expatriate, you are supposed to bring loads of 'Tang' and 'Nido' which has been gloriously representing the pride of gulf since ages.

Rule 2: You are 26 and you are not supposed to love your old home anymore. The mango trees and sparrows that made your mornings, the lonely corridors floored as a chess board where you spent your afternoon gazing at the light beams that sieved in through open window pane, the rainwater rushing down from the terracota tiles paved through your roof,  all of them to be vanished into your memories. Only a two storeyed concrete cube can help you attract one more to the array of eminent engineeers and doctors that make your family.

Rule 3: You draw, you write, you click. But we just smirk.

Rule 4: Make money and you will respected. Make more money to gain more respect. Pleasure, satisfaction, passion, what is that ?

Rule 5: You are supposed to be fair and to gain weight. You are to impress the girls with your looks.

And there goes it unending. I see the lazy, cowardous letters hanging in bold, 'Priorities change', the very justification that goes in handy when you fear losing your face.

Hiding my fears with a weird smile, I hope an unexpected forking of road somewhere ahead guiding me to the wilderness. 

Stories of Life

This space had been inactive since long. All my efforts had being redirected in doing a series of photo-stories on life at paradoxical situations. It has been months of hurdles and distractions before I could strand them in a single thread.

Click the link to view the page - ZOE

I request each one of you to visit the page and give your valuable critics.

rambling by the narrow bridge

shrieks and cries from distance..mild. The yellowish fluttery light at the corner is another home..the street dramas play drums and harmonium in moonlight. Yellow n red flowers shed from the huge tree, the lonely cart below and the restless oxen.


The numbers on the pale wooden board..the red old telephone and the tring trings. The balloon bird who did somersaulting on a festival day. preserved glass pieces on the cement floor which made my mornings. The red barrels and the side-less truck on a rainy day.


The old cupboard and the sour grapes. The wooden cabin and heaped grains.

Memories between those parallels

Remembrance of Great Indian Train Journeys;

It was an art, the art of slipping in the General Compartment of crowded Malabar Express. The art of sleeping over the luggage rack. At nowhere else we used ceiling fans as shoe racks.

Its all art. Art of seat reservation in day trains; you need to carry a hand kerchief  for such emergency situations. The art of borrowing the co-seater's newspaper. The art of resting legs on opposite seats. Even the art of venting off at the shaky restrooms.The art of moving in and out of the Mumbai suburban. 

Indian Railway offered the signatured delicacies and the  watery coffees.Had sipped in more than a hundred of them. Pazhamporees of Kozhikode, Meduvadas of Chennai, Ankurs(grapes) of Ahmedabad, Idli nastha at Bandra, Appam-mutta curry of Shornur,  Onion Oothappas of Andra(on fresh round green leaves), Vada Pav of Madgao, Masaladosas of Uduppi, Lassis of Gandhidham. Memories down the broad guage.

Had a few acquaintances through my journeys; the middle aged man who talked about his son's jeans which has never been washed. The students who closely listened to the technical aspects of the train. The Penthecost sister who read my mumbai diaries with a smile. The boy who boasted of charging mobiles from the mango leaf. The women who sold jasmine and malli inside the chennai suburbans. The man who carried his brother's dead body.The Hijadas of Mumbai who made their living from trains. The women of Kutch who enquired about my dreams and lot more to the list.

I had collections of the thick hardboard tickets which no more exists. A few from the yellow coloured ones the Mumbai suburban. All safe in my wallet

The journey would continue. 

It is better to last it for many years;

and to anchor at the island when you are old,

rich with all you have gained on the way

-Ithaca (Constantine Cavafy)

When my mind is longing for the next vacation, i stay pampering these frames. Snaps from an Ahmedabad-Chennai Trip three years before.

pep

The waves lashed onto the limestone boulders. The cold breeze marked the winter's majestic entrance. People were busy burning off calories on the synthetic track. Aircrafts roared over them awaiting the landing signal. Speeding cars passed by the expressway. The place was a wrong choice to preach tranquillity. I sieved the pista-pinapple chunks out the drink i took to overcome the strains of the days fast. Typed a text message for my friend, 'Its Eid. People are busy around. I wish there be a Buddhist monastery around. I wish there be a friend like you to suggest me something with a note - you will like it'.

Later in the night I got a reply to prepare for an avalanche.

I was being taken to the mountains rich in reds and greens. The incense sticks, prayer wheels and prayer flags. A place familiar through Javier Moro's 'The Mountains of the Buddha'. Gayness seeped in as water through the xylem vessels. Mind relished in the enamouring joy, peace and madness. I was in search of my bodhi. Through the dark caves of stone age men, through the long corridors with wooden blocks set aside, through the vacant altars where the light was always coloured in blue, green and orange. Radiant white light drove in through the broken window panes. I was being attracted to it as the moth towards fire.

*----------------------*

These are outdated ideas. You sulk when you go for it. You have more options. Tequila, Eau-ve-de-vie, absinthe, marijuana and even more, the psychedelic beats at the discotheque.Or you can write about sex or to criticize the perverts around. We aren't monks, but the saints of insanity.










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Later in the night, I had more chats and discussions with my friends. I make these notes to very few ones who make me feel so important in this world. For you, the space cannot contain my words.

The picture is a collage painting I did on whirling dervishes and Buddhism.

weekend

The desert is showing signs of a climate change; from the hot sweating days to the misty cold time. This has always been always a city of extremities, the western wanderers tanning themselves on the shores of luxury, the Asian migrants with their mortgaged pockets. The blacks smoking sheesha at the Arabian cafes; they wore dresses of vibrant colours as if stitched from bedspreads. The Arabs gaming with their four wheel drives, falcons and greyhounds; their Kanturas* glistened in white tinges. Through these diverse crown I just spend a weekend out of my room. Here I should mention about my past weeks brooding before my laptop and busy writing mails for my NGO. Even the random selection of books have turned out to be waste of time, they remain in my bag with a bookmark placed somewhere in the last quarter.

I had a couple of tickets for the Autumn-Winter collection by some Indian Couturier. Though I am yet to buy a camera of my wishes, I somehow managed to click a few frames. Later I roamed through labyrinths staying amazed at few Iranian artists who made wonders with sands. I was experiencing the revelous moments of passion.

*single piece loose dress reaching from shoulders to the foot, usually worn by Arabs