After thought???

All constructs of reality blur at this odd hour and music being top of mind has hit home again...

Just two lines tonight
Music seduces me ...
And as always I succumb.

All this post script to Soulmate live in Blue Frog....

The relentless Insomniac

There is a ringing in my head. Like a pleasant cackle that amuses and then annoys. It comes and goes in sudden pangs of noise and vanishes. It's been three weeks and now the swollen eyes refuse to even try to shut. There's been a trip and forced escapes from reality have just boomeranged me back to where I started from - leaning on the headrest of my poster bed.
All I'm doing is negotiating sleep.Well, not all. Also writing stories, chasing deadlines, making up stories for the movies, putting paint to the canvas. Aimlessly I'm gazing around for a spark of inspiration and it comes in the form of random emails and Youtubed Michelle Obama speech. My heroes have left me and fallen from a state of grace.
It's been indifferent weather. Un-rainy, un-windy, un-sunny, un-hot, un-cold. Sheer numbeness. I hear shuffling footsteps in the corridor. Or I'm imagining them. The disquiet and Zakir's exalt of the tabla - is all that remains. Slowly, a desire surfaces - to stay put. On the crumpled night-sheet, with the remains of a conversation killed unawares.
Half-asleep or half-awake? The maudlin citizens and the obdurate elves. All reside within me.After the downpour, a cloud is left. That forgot to burst. And now by itself, is wandering, with the weight of rain in it's veins.
Somebody join the dots. Somebody rescue me from my second verse. It's not ending making way for the third. There is sheer confect.
While there is turmoil in my heart. In between somewhere there, I do say my prayers, tidy up the room, will the bad leg to walk, shed an inward tear and put up a smile. And a random a 2-minute poetry project every now and then.

As Shireen Nada Rashid...

The morning wore a chill, cloaked in fog and damp air that drifted in light-circles against a grey backdrop; streetlamps flickered, some already dark in places where a sliver of autumn sun burned through. There were sounds, but they were not unfamiliar: the hum of a patrol car, the crunch of gravel under Green boots, the echo of commands barked in a harsh out-Kashmiri accent. Huddled together for warmth, our breath betraying our position, we stood with gripped hands and attained a steely resolve, resigned to take our first step. This was our walk through Greater Kashmir in Pandor, as not an outsider but as a Kashmiri. Deep undercover, this would be the first time I looked, spoke, dressed and felt Kashmiri.

There is a road that separates enemies from friends; it looks like any other road in any other city, lined with small shops and houses protected by lace curtains; there is a butcher, a masjid—a postal place on the corner. Look more closely, however, and you will notice the subtle hints of something off: an outcry in green Gaeilge marking a window or door, a man with a machine gun standing across the way. The man, most particularly, is the oddity—but only to you; for us, he is as permanent as the broken upper story window of the Anwar's Boardinghouse: cracked, a blemish, never to be fixed and yet familiar in its imperfection--comforting. There was a difference on this day, however: he wasn’t alone.

The night before last a policeman came to our door and armed men searched our house in the name of secularism. He did not find what he was looking for (save a new doll for his daughter), which was a relief; last night Saffadullah and the Rakim were beaten bloody and left in the gutter for the grave sin of being Anti-Amarnath. The state is burning, only this time the terrorist is communalism. Today, the Troubles had returned. Today, we were walking to school with an escort, frontrunners on the battle lines. The children were out of class.

There is a point on this road where Pandor becomes Khatir Ganj and, not two blocks more, an old Shiv Mandir stands as a vicious reminder of a time when this street belonged to another page in history. Crossing this line in fear, as we did every weekday, we clung to each other and our mothers—and this day we looked over our shoulders at the blurred vision of our fathers and brothers, kept behind a line of smartly-dressed policemen (for their own protection). Long before we’d learned that tears didn’t help when they fell, pooled as they were in our collective sorrows; today we were learning a lesson in glassy stoicism and thin-pressed lips.

Not three steps across that territorial line, I stumbled too much with looking back and my primer slipped, clapping the concrete and startling the silence. It was not a sign but it was taken that way, and we heard a man shout before the first stone was cast. In a panic we scattered, suddenly alone on a crowded street, deafened by the angry cries of deprived freedom. Two jeeps came—or maybe three—and the wagon; men were taken away against a gunfire soundtrack. And on the steps of that old school a second-year gripped tight the railing as blood trickled and stained her new white shirt.

There would be many more times when walking to school would erupt in violence—but every day we made the walk. We were prisoners of our situation in a conflict that no one truly understood, grasping at the straws of freedom with every tentative step.

Far removed now, back in my own reality and from war-torn memories, what the true value of an education is. All I can tell them is that it’s worth a scar, pink and time-faded, on an eight year old’s forehead.

Second to None

Self expression is on an all time high. And I fear some of it has already been lost on an undelivred message that will sit in my outbox for days. But courage, like I've said countelessly before, comes with a ticking bomb. And as on many such stupors, parting through a melee of insignficant and perhaps some too significant moments...the upward and tortous climb to my appartment has left an afterthought of random words. For the record, I have survived being termed an Anglo-Indian, hit on by a couple of band members who mistook me for a groupie, a bloated foot and knee thanks to prolonging childhood revisiting injury (this time she promises a longer visit) and of course life in the live world and fighting that incredibly urge to form connection with the one-at-the-moment . There is a moment in time, that psychologits term the lucid interval, when time stands still and one is expected to translate self's feelings and confirm other people's thoughts in a nod or a shrug. Mostly this is one of those disclaimers : Very drunk rambling ahead I talked about earlier. But heart in displaced territory is echoing a tune, even the bad knee (dislocated and all) promises support in jig and I'm feeling 15 again.

So much has happened. So many faces in distant lands have provided a sense of comfort, reality and Kahwa. And too many near and dear ones have had a dimming. Having a first of many more to come. Hic...

After Hours

The Emergency room at Uri

The sanatorium looms over the metropolis,

Stinking of bleach,

To conceal the scent of vomit and blood.

Yet I can taste them in the air,

From the children's ward,

Were we receive the needle’s flare.

To the emergency room;

Where the careless are stitched up.

I sit now in the waiting room,

Envious of the 7 year-old,

The one with the shaven head.

For she knows not of the enemy

Crawling in her blood.

Only of the smiling nurse

Who says she’ll get well;

And the child believes her,

Because that’s what children are for.

Perhaps she will recover,

The girl with the shaven head-

They caught it early it seems.

But I sit and become rancid,

I decompose in the padded chair.

The unknown case,

The basket case,

My head spins with every theory;

Every hypothesis;

Every possibility and,

For my whole body is ailing.

I pray for a medicine,

One that will do its work.

I pray and pray,

I smile at the girl with the shaven head,

And she smiles back.

Rebirth

Family

On the way home last night

In God's Own Country

Amongst God's own Men.

I found my Eden..with a touch of brown and grey....

...Kashmir

(notes from Omar Abdullah's private golf course)

By blur

Deliberation and Angst came over for dinner tonight. We three dined over melting drama and glasses of cheap Sula wine picked at the last harvest in Nasik. The lights fluttered in the shadows reacting to the exchanged emotions amidst the silence of clinking spoons, forks, bone china and masticating noise. Any moment now, the plates will be empty and there will be no food dodging the inevitability of the evening. The cheap Sula’s last dregs had been emptied. The candles on the table were dying out and what seemed like the longest supper of the longest night at the smallest dinner table in the whole world, closure would'v been a fine aftertaste. Cloaked in the comfort of lose linens and satin sheets, the threesome would finally come out tonight. After the last morsel was forked off the plate, Deliberation let out an exhausted sigh. There was to be dessert, of course, for the prolonging. But for the lack of Purpose’s wisdom, he mentioned it before. “I just can’t find that cheesecake.”

“Marvelous meal! I haven’t had okra cooked in vinegar for a long time. My compliments to the lady.” Deliberation smiled vehemently. I absently smiled and kept my gaze strategically away from meeting his eyes. Madness you see is like gravity. The eccentricities of Deliberation would only require a little push to instigate.

Scowling in one corner, Angst sat and studied her subjects. She knew them only too well and too quick. A deep-set frown on her forehead, Angst shrugged her nose in silence and stared down Deliberation and me. And then, it began…

… after it was all over, I sat examining the empty table and the upright candle. The bone-china sat perfectly shiny and immaculately placed around folded napkins and bowls of food waiting for the guests to come and chose their naked surfaces for the grand feast. Just like virgin skin. My carefully ironed and spiffy red dress draped my feigned glow. I’ve waited for this day for far too long and months of chasing have brought me to my supper table. This was my one chance at finishing my long search. Dreams and Ardour are coming for dinner tonight. In the corner of my ear I could hear, “I just can’t find that cheesecake…”

PS (there are bottles of beer in the freezer)

Drunker stupor

Usually such posts should come with a disclaimer, but courage comes with a time warranty things follow their own steam. Very proselike rambling, only this might read more confessional than concluding. I have no message and no knowledagble epiphany or after thought ODed over to dstribute. There is just this buzz in my head that won't stay with me and has aimlessly directed me to this webpage. So one would write like one has always been. Only tonight the verse has gone missing and the words are not coming by easy. It's just the wisp of a lingering melody in my head that will see fulfillment on the six-string. The seduction is back and I have a sneaking suspicion this time it is going to stay. I seem to be saying that a lot lately and for obvious reasons. But Paolo has packed his guitar off the cobbled street, and left for a grander stage. I don't think I have it in me to be Priscilla to my Elvis. And I am a bottle too down to bother the chase. Hic.

The oft visited dream

The Last Kiss

Long long time ago in the land of Pixie-sweeps, Rapunzel let down her hair. The knight instead played double sweep on the poker table. No one came to her rescue that night. She pulled back and swept her floor of all the waiting, straight into the chimney with the piling dust of yesterday. In the corner of her memory, a mellow tune filtered in. Somber, mournful and melting within...she heard bagpipes and the tin flute. The sharp playful shreik of the Harp made waves through her soul. A single hand plucking the acoustic lifted hee heart and plopped back in her chest. A tear floated at the back of the iris. The tattoo maker was writing invisible sheet music on her bare skin.

The yearning for a perfection, seemingly absent.

The yearning for love, picture-perfect and melodious.

The yearning for the last kiss, if only true love climbed the golden hair.

(Un)likely Fairytale

OK! So my last few posts have been somewhat dreading towards heightened romanticism.(and I've been made aware of that time and again..thanks to B) No matter how happily single I profess myself to be, a girl can have her moments. The truth is, life is a corny lover's bubble and blame it on oxytocin.

Some days I think I should have been born during the medieval days when honour and chivalrous knights ruled...okay, so that's the romantic view most of us choose to have of that time, in lieu of the violence, black plague and serious lack of personal hygiene. It's the act of chivalry that I believe has all but disappeared, becoming crumbling empty shells of history, much like the once majestic castles dating back to that era. I'm faced with this reality every time I hit the roadduring the daily commute. Amazing how the moment you step foot out and find no more empty seats, no empty taxis, packed elevators and not to mentione shoving queues. Feignng sleep rather than make eye contact with you. Now, mind you, I do my share of being courteous. If someone is right behind me as I go through a door, I always hold it open for them.

Doesn't matter if it's for a man or woman. That's called manners...plain and simple. I've given up my seat on the bus to elderly folks or pregnant women, too. But, no matter how independent I am, I still enjoy having a man hold open a door for me, pull out my chair (preferably not out from under me), let me enter or exit an elevator before them, etc. Heck, it makes me feel special, and what's wrong with that? :-) I'm a romantic at heart. That said, I felt pretty darn good this morning when I was approaching the front doors of my office building. A man was also approaching, but he was still at least 10 feet away compared to my 1 foot. As I reached for the door, he darted forward and said, "here, let me get the door for you!" Seriously, he actually ran to open the door for me and it wasn't as if I had my hands full. How nice was that? It's one thing if you're both there at the same time, but to run for the door? Major brownie points, dude! ;-) Just goes to show, you never know when some guy's latent knighthood will wake from deep slumber, puff out his chest and say, "after you, m' lady."

Notes to Self-II

My room has stars. The last moments when sleep takes over and darkness sets in, they whisper the last goodnight. Their florescence make me smile each night and I ponder somenights gazing endlessly into the fligree cups running amuck in the window of my already dreaming mind. I haven't even slept yet and the weaving has started. I imagine small elves sprinkling glittery sleep dust just like in the children's book that said so on New Year's first night. I recede and let the twinkle settle in. I sleep. I feel the stars looking down at me through the eyelids. I feel safe. I still hold wonder in my heart.

Shadow walker

Smell of malt whiskey, stale beer and tempered wine. Murky yet somewhat dapper. It's everywhere. I can sense him everywhere. In the train, on the platform, in the car navigating me, in the kitchen teasing my culinary senses, in the bed beside me fighting for pop corn at prime time, hugging me while I fondle with the six-strings, paying intent attention while I talk to myself; make my hair; iron my clothes... follows me to the garden of thought as I pick lilliams of wonder, resting his back on mine as I talk perilously for hours and gasps in animated wonder at my quivering super-sonic reactions, breathing down my neck as I write - even on this confession box...
My shadow doesn't seem like my own lately. It's been telling me things I yearn to hear but would rather not know. It's bigger, longer and seems to be able to engulf me. The bitter scent is back again and I feel a deep longing. My heart tells me its not alone anymore. If only I could disagree.

Pyschedelic trippin

someday, I said,

I want to meet you again.

I want to find you in the middle of a crowded empty coffee shop sidewalk,

and write on your hands;

we'll sit at a little table with french iron lacework with our little cups of sophistication and knowledge,

discuss sports(yawn) music (perhaps even make some), the meaning of life even.

and you'll give me lollipops-(lots of lollipops?- yes)

My tongue will change colours- fifty different colours! I'll speak rainbows for days,

instead of goodbye,

and you'll part from me with memories of blue trailing from your violet thoughts while red and yellow trade places with green between your palms as you squeeze orange through your fingers. And our lips gasp swivels of pink on cheeks, necks and foreheads.

(our thoughts are peculiar ribbons of indigo)

Backpedal

Love 2, circa 2008

Congregation of Faith

It's a tricky word...hope. Seems to be irony's biggest ally. In the battle of happiness, there are no sure winners. But the demon persists. If only the feeding would pause. Life is a joker's paradise. There is jest in every move and the tune of an satire on each pair of lips. I only wonder in the ultimate war, when did the battle of the skeptic and innocent take place. Was I even there? Where was the war- zone? And what I'm still figuring out...who won?



It's hard for me to fall in love. But each time I re-learn to let go, I feel I'm in the midst of a war of the worlds. If only the Beatles were singing All you need is Love right now, I'd listen intently and follow them across the universe in search of answers. But I wouldn't want the song to fade away on I love you yeah yeah yeah...that remains as an afterthought. It leaves hope, a dumb glee, a growing blush and a heartbeat - what if.



It's best to avoid the verse at all points. Kipling's poem is lost in a corporate jungle somewhere where performance managers continue to drive the mumbo down endearingly. Only my life is unroutinely chaotic to follow the consistent meandering. But I still wonder. The regret of loss is probably the worst feeling. But it revisits often.

Three days, three calls - still one lonely heart. Learning to adjust!

Love...again

She stood at the edge of the ocean. Talking to the waves as she had done on many occasions. This time there was ferocity in the waters. As if they mirrored the violence in her heart. Her face gave nothing as she peered into the distant horizon - that would be at day break. The night had become her favourite companion to accompany her on her moonlit walks across the lands that meet the sea. Only this time, light was threatening to kill the darkness. She was waiting for the eventuality at dawn break. Her dream was dying and she watched as a shallow outsider. Too scared to mourn, too proud to fall, too weak to hurt. Ironic. The freedom she longed for was right beside her in easy company, yet hope planted the seed of love. How easy, she thought to let the pain take over and float with the southbound waves. How righteous to stay on the edge and gaze. Numbness. Irony. Love. Freedom. She made a mental note. Her life’s thesauras needed another update.

Perfect Word

Silent echo
A muffled wish

Deep gash
A salted wound

Deadly sojourn
A still journey

Feverish pitch
An unheard cry

Black tea
A balming concoct

Vodka straw
An invited misery

Simple life
A distant memory

Home town
An online blimp

Size zero
A soulful state

Calendar Girl
A jaded reality

Happy tune
A misleading lie

Summer house
A Facebook profile