Sunday, August 22, 2010
Looking back, it feels like its been in an overwhelming journey. They say I’ve grown up. I am now officially an adult. I’m not sure I know what those words mean. But yes, I have lived with myself for a while now and its been alternate bouts of reasoning and breaking. Its just the beginning and I know that. My stride is still not in harmony with the streets of this city. I’m still a little unbalanced, a little alone. Yet scattered acts of kindness have taken on a new colour and tinted my life with all its blues, greens and reds. Often I’ve had the feeling that I was standing on the platform of a railway station, and trains were rushing by me. I was caught in a sea, an inferno of people, humanity, beggars and their cries and whispers. Everyone was rushing ahead in their haste to get away, to jump onto the racing trains and there I was, in the midst, alone, deafened by the noise, blinded by the visions, silenced by their cries and whispers.
I like my room. That is what I like to call it. My bed is not flea-ridden. The temple, the markets, little lanes and parks envelope my abode. I go to the temple and feel peaceful. I go the market, I feel cheerful. I take a walk down these little lanes and feel hopeful. I haven’t been to the park yet. My eyes still hurt.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
No one can eat just one.
It has been 2 weeks of me swirling around in this mad globe of dust and granite. Dust is beautiful here. Monkeys perch on the promontory every morning. The wind slaps you around, the dust pricks, searches and finally settles for, on what it finds.
Chips are good.
I found a book on Sugar embroidery, sugar quilting. The one who trades in confectionary keeps them. They're beautiful, like the dust. Only more planned, organised. The dust is intricate too.
Chaos and uncertainty are patterns in my dreams. The red and black from my childhood. Marbles I lost to snakes. Talking in riddles.
In the larger frame of life, what matters?
The ultimate question stands:
What is the colour of water?
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
This story is not about the very controversial Palmer family. It is also not about the turbulent relationship between Mr. and Mrs. Palmer. It is not even about how Mr. Palmer left the family and ran away with a country girl. It is about the two little Palmers. One little and one, not so little. That is, Philip Palmer and Polly Palmer. Yes, it is about those two.
Our story unfolds itself not through phases of time. It really has no reason or rhyme. But our story is important for it tells the story of these 2 little lives, one little and one, not so little. Two lives which are hardly important, had it not been for their intertwining. How they occasionally made little feasts of each other is interesting, not because one did it a little more than the other, but because it tells you about swings and fairy wings, fun and guns, chocolates and dirty traits and those tiny yet incomparable things which spatter existence, with life.
The Palmer family did not live in the blue cottage of Polly Palmer's dreams. Instead, they lived in a faded rust cottage. In her imagination, Polly Palmer would often run around the house and paint it with a huge brush that danced while it painted, danced along the hem of her skirt. Once, Polly's friend Pat asked her why she dreamt of a blue cottage. You see, Pat loved his red cottage home and he couldn't understand why anyone would want a cottage that is not red and really, rust came closest to his red. If I remember correctly, Polly had said to Pat, "If only I had a blue cottage! The colour of the sky and the seas and the mountains in early winter. Why, it would seem like I lived in paradise. Paradise is blue, with white clouds to replace couches."
Mr. Palmer was a very ugly man. He was fat and he had a potbelly and he had hair sprouting out of his ears and his nostrils and hair everywhere, really. He was like a fat grizzly bear, said Mrs. Palmer. He also had a bulging eyes that went red when he got drunk, which was every night. Mr. Palmer had a fiery temper and each night that his eyes went red and bugled more than usual, he would come home and beat Mrs. Palmer with the back scratcher. In fact, he would beat her with anything that was lying around the house and when there was nothing, he would roll up the paper and when there was no paper, he would roll up his sleeves and beat her. Then he would drink some more and sleep. When morning came and the butterflies flitted around in the sunshine, Mr. Palmer would open his eyes and they would not be red. They would be smiling and all accepting and there would be a nice jolly smile on his hairy face. Mr. Palmer often said, "Morning is the best time of the day. I'm not an evil man, folks. It is just that when the sun goes to sleep and its dark all around and beautiful Mrs. Jones with the smooth round face and ample bosom offers me a mug of beer, me can't do nothing but slurp it all down. You can't call me an evil man for that, folks. Nay, it is but surrendering to the vices of night-time. But come morning with sun shining so bright and the grass so green and the flowers all colours of the rainbow, you can't do nothing then but smile and be a good man. Yes, folks. I am a good man. It’s the time that gets to me." Mrs. Palmer loved mornings too. It is when she cooked her best and dressed her best because she was not like the others. Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Baker and Mrs. Needham dressed in their fancy evening wear and slipped their arms around their husbands and carried them around like an extra accessory and partied and ate and laughed and gossiped. It was only in the daytime that Mrs. Palmer felt like she was living a good life.
Monday, April 19, 2010
For now, I'll turn to the poem I wrote about a certain Mr. Vincent. Here it is for you to laugh at:
Mr. Vincent will wallop
He likes a dollop-
and has dreams-
Takes a bow.
He wears a coat
Rows a boat.
He likes to swim,
Has a female twin,
has regular fights,
his pants are tight.
His skin tone is light,
he thinks he is always right.
On sunny mornings, Pinky bright,
He goes to bathe in the tank dressed in might.
He loves to kiss,
and on Thursday evenings piss-
that is very yellow,
then he feels mellow.
You can tell,
if you ring a bell,
He won’t respond,
But with his ego you can bond.
That is, this is for now,
go and pluck a brow,
For Vincent’s story is nearing an end,
beyond this, there is no bend.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
I stood in front of the mirror in my bathroom. I squinted and looked hard. It hit me hard on the head. The evidence of the barrage, I mean. It was my nose. Now it hadn't grown any larger than it was the night before and I know because I know my own nose, you know what I mean? My nose was in between me and the world. To top it all, there was a fine rounded large boil that sat pink on the tip of my nose. I felt like the world was shutting me out. What had I done to anger it so? I rued and sighed and then I remembered the breeze. I ran out and it was still there, sitting quietly on a hammock in the backyard. "So, little one? Have you discovered your gift?", it said, springing up from a hammock and sending it flying till it hit the shed and fell in a pile, hurt and wounded. Now I realised that my realisation had made it worse. Now I couldn't see in front of me or above me or behind or anywhere without my nose coming in between. All i could see was my nose and its ornament that seemed to be proudly poised on it. "You must never feel sorry for yourself, little one. This is a gift. How many people do you think realise that they have a nose? Why, they smell most greedily if you place a dish of food in front of them and squiggle their noses and wiggle them in disapproval and in various different ways to make known their volatile moods but how many of them, pray tell me, notice it?" the breeze asked. "What is your name?" I asked it. "Today it is hoosh-haash, yesterday it was foorfoor" replied the breeze, I mean...hoosh-haash. "It is time now. Let us go." it said. "Where?" I cried out. Everything was moving too fast for me to think. Then I understood it was hoosh-haash's work. Lending an atmosphere was the utmost emergency. *sigh* "Don't just stand there and sigh. All you humans, always complaining and sighing and shouting...oh how I hate it! Now be a good little girl and place the third finger of your right hand on your pretty pot;
"Yes it must be the third finger, every finger sends out different signals. I don't want to land up in goblin land. I heard they're going through a bad time. Won't be welcome there!" it shuddered.
"Who is pretty pot?", I asked. "Oh come on! I thought you had a little more than goop in that tiny little brain of yours! Pretty pot is perched on your nose!! Be quick now! Hurry!" said hoosh-haash. I was feeling pretty sad. I was about to protest against the goop comment but it looked so angry that I did what it asked it.
What happened next? Oh boy oh boy oh boy! It was the wonder of wonders indeed. I must scamper off now but I will come back later and tell you what happened.
Till then! :)
I felt as if my spirit was being wrung out of me. That it was going to be threshed and laid bare for all to see and laugh at.
But c'est la vie!
Meanwhile, I shall go and hide under the red checked towel. The water droplets are still caught in its thatched fabric. They will cool my soul. I will look up and see spots of sun. I might smile.