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

The journey to my mind

Prologue


Last time when I took my pen, it was to write on the little pauses, but it was indeed followed by a great pause. Busy with work and few midnight madness, I often forgot the tiny notepads I carried all the way.I was being washed way by the gushing white water stream of time . It took me to the land of wild dreams, by the bed of yellow chrysanthemums, through the marshy lands, the poppy gardens. Thrashed to the soft rocks I nearly screamed. Gasped. Sighed. I saw my destiny flowing ahead. (Smile) You kept me moving.

Thank Lord, there were always someone to nudge me, pull me and and prompt me.

Ethereal Blues


It was Thursday, the last working day of the week. I had enough work at office, though I skimmed through a couple of blogs and the news on 'Svanubhava' arts festival in Hindu.

My room was unusually calm. Brooding over insane thoughts, welcomed the depression with a smile. I was being infected by unknown viruses of passion. I slipped into those pampered depressions. It was after long that I stood awake till the dawn with this notepad and pen. I am on the journey to my mind.

I realized, i'm restricting myself to a small circle where I'm comfortable. I have started enjoying this life in exile.

Epilogue


The day started with a Masala Dosa and Coffee from the Uduppi Hotel at the corner of the lane. This was a place where you could only find a few Mangalorean families spending their weekend outside to taste delicacies of  their native. Calm and cool, not like the rest of cafeterias where the waiters shouted to the kitchen, ek porotta-keema, dow chay usme ek pani kum.

I walked out to that small lending library. The library was run by a malayali. It had many children's books and a few malayalam novels. Probably this was established for a minor communist intellectuals who left to Dubai in  the late nineties. I see them at bedspaces with a grown hair and a few old book by their pillow. I walked by...I am on the journey to my mind..

I paused.

I paused writing.
Every moment, every day
I come across some thought
I wish, I could write upon. But I paused !!


Stories unwritten; unpublished,
of people I passed by.
Dennis, the Philippine
The fat Negro woman serving hospitality
Khum, the Nepali
I paused.


Time stands confused
The black tea stinks
Air tastes salt
I am in summer blues


It is darkness, the red
concentric circles, the shots
of marijuana, which takes my dreams
I am chased. No,
Not killed


Hell !! I shouted
No, I did not
I paused !!
I am in summer blues

Ithaca

'When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,


pray that the road is long,

full of adventure, full of knowledge



Pray that the road is long.

That the summer mornings are many, when,

with such pleasure, with such joy,

you will enter ports seen for the first time;

stop at Poenician markets,

and purchase fine merchandise,

mother-of-pearl and coral, amber nad ebony,

and such sensual perfumes of all kinds,

as many sensual perfumes as you can;

visit many Eqyptian cities,

to learn and learn from scholars.



Always keep Ithaca in your mind.

To arrive there is your ultimate goal.

But do not hurry the voyage at all.

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,

not expecting that Ithaca wil offer you with riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.

Without her you would never have set out on the road.

She has nothing more to give you.



And if you found her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.

Wise as you have become, with so much experience,

you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.
 
                                                             -Constantine Cavafy(1863-1933)
                                                                   translated by Rae Dalven
(Quoted from 'The Zahir')

Huh !! What to do?

Being away from the homeland, i'm being driven by crazy thoughts..Buddha, bodhi, dances and lovely old humans. Colours creep into my heart. i wish I could make more adventures and new legacies.."Da, shall we visit Kalakshetra sometime together?" I asked my friend.

Frames kept rolling through as if from a film reel. I was stuck at the memory of the tiny rickety tea-shops of Kerala. Its wooden benches, glass shelfs and the movie posters pasted on its wall. We had lot of its kind in our village. They were active with the business before the dawn, when the people started off for their work to make coir and to hunt fishes, when the retired men walked their way to mosques to offer the morning prayers,  I would be passing by on my bicycle for the school time ritual 'Tuition'.

These places had the radio tuned to the morning ragas of 'Akashavani', or the Sanskrit News. They never understood it, but it formed the rhythm of their life. They had their hot tea, even hotter discussions on the day-to-day politics. The intoxicating puffs of tobacco guided them through great spirits. It was dexterous I felt, to hold the 'beedi' between their teeth and talk (than how the new generation blows of the puff holding it between the fingers).

On Sundays, I too ran to these huts, holding a steel tiffin box close to my chest, to get the hot 'porottas' and 'some mouth watering curry'. I would run faster back on the way. The tiffin would be hot enough to burn my skin.

Though these tea-shops are rare to be found these days, i'm sure. i shall find one to have the strong tea and parippu vadas, once I'm back there.  I'm always bound to pondering such nostalgic memories. What to do?

* The firs snaps are from the travel blog of Mitchell Kanashkevich. The last one from Neelu's collections.

Tribute

I'm running short of title ideas...even the last entry was made just to escape from the monotony of life.

"your wings went complaining.
 great.

 but you believe in the breeze.
 great.

 yes, no one can take
 the winds away from you.
 great.

 yeah! the canvas keep changing
 but the painter remains the same.
 great."


The above are words of a person who guided me with conscience, who cared me with affection, who cheered me up with a great smile, and whom i admire for his exuberance. 

zerO, you are simply great. 

Confessions

"Evenings were never so melancholic", scribbled on her tiny red notebook which had red floral designs. She always carried it in her handbag. It was gifted to her along with a gold tipped pen by her younger cousin.

"The sparrows competed to get into the tiny holes of the withered wall of the park. Their squeaky cries filled in the atmosphere. They borrowed my evenings."

It has been not so long since she left her home and parents. They seldom called her for she dared to do quite a few things which was outside the limits decided by the society. She couldn't tolerate to live in between the tailor made decent human beings. People at times found her in a gang of guys, sometimes at pubs with few tequila glasses set on the table. It was quite hard for them not to bitch about her. But they din't dare to utter a word before her.

"Its not the moustaches and beards which make a man." She had her own definitions of gender. "I often dream Shiva, the grace, the masculinity....the stone paved path and the dancing sculptors. You know dance is of two types, Nritha and Natya. Nritha is masuline while Natya is feminine." Exuberance set fire to her words when it was about dance. She was guided by a couple of fantasy filled dance compositions, her dream project. But she really gets irritated when in the wrong crowd, and that was the reason once she decided to quit her corporate job. But she couldn't do it till now." A lot talents are stuck here. I often come across entries in the bulletin. I wonder why the don'y quit. It can be called avarice of the human race. Even to build up a career in art, we need money. Artists can't always be so poor as read in old stories."

" I can't understand why life is showing a greater tendency to be monotonous everyday.At times my watch appear stagnant to me. Is time dead ? This is suffocating. I take a different path to home everyday to escape from the sameness. These parts of the city are not that depressing, but at times it wore a strange face."

"Am I selfish? I never felt so bad being termed a cynic. The air around is so saturated that I can't vent out. I want to confess. Where are you my sparrows? I want to confess."

"They say I am confused. Am I?"

** end **
It is for the first time I am writing on a female perspective. Qualities borrowed from a few female friends I admire.