The tide has turned. After years, the tide has returned. Its a eerie feeling: of speaking moonlight, singing waves, and smiling skies.
Like sand-papered skin, every feeling is intensified, heightened. The wind whispering against you face can make you go crazy. A streak of lightening can drive you mad. A growl of thunder can make your heart rumble.
The waves carressing the shore is a throbbing murmer that underlines the night. The rock, glistening wet, ugly, carbuncled, grostesqly fascinating, stands an unmoved spectator. The lighthouse above arcs yellow mottled beams across the night in rythmic handfuls.
The tide has returned. Once more, after a long time, the still water have been stirred murky. All the life in the ocean has swum up to the surface, and She is awake again. The waves are constant and unceasingly bright and strong. Sometimes dark grey, sometimes bright blue and green, but coloured once more. Once more, She is alive, almost human.
The wind racing across the water and out towards the shore, rushing out to join the sands and ruffle its unbound surface, sings joyfully. The sand is not bound together. The sand is loose and fancy-free. It flies with the wind. It sings and dances and plays. The sand goes everywhere, knows everything, loves everything. She knows, yet she lets him in. The waters accept everything
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Stranger in the Mirror
Still no net access, but I am getting there. The house is almost settled, though it still feels strange at times, like staying over at someone else's house. Have friends, but havent been able to get in touch with anyone as such, so no social life, which is great! Will be a awhile before I settle down with a connection at home, so will be likely to write a lot of rubbish till then, as whatever I write will be in a hurry - so if ur reading, make allowances. My favourite part about living at home though is definitely the terrace. I dont beleive I havent been to Roxy yet. Funny how things change. Underlining everymoment is a feeling of excitement: 'I'm getting there'. I am figuring it out. Every day, every moment, I am understanding a bit more, I am understanding a bit better. I am making a connection with Her. I am making my peace with Her. I am learning to accept Her and stand up to her. I am learning to live with her, warts and all. I am learning to look her in the eye and hold her gaze, as I stare at her in the mirror. She is as elusive and Chamelion to me as to you.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Lost in a Moment
The whole place has changed, at various levels. The 'new building' spawned 3 newer buildings, each with one huge glass fronted side looking out on to the water. For a while, it feels like its working. Feels like ages since I wore a Salwar-Kameez to work. Feels good. Graceful. Powerful. In some subtle way.
I am free, yet trapped, reportable. The endless empty hours that drive most people crazy are like welcome rain on thirsty dry ground. I could spend days just staring out onto the silver mirrored water, and the grey blue sky look back and forth at each other.
Every now and then a stray bird flies across the view. In one corner there's a thatched hut floating on the water.
At home, the new wind chimes are up and sound lovely in the thunderstorm season. Its that time of the year, when I remember why I lovely this city, why I love her madly.
Alone in a corner of the terrace it looks the like the whole world has come to a standstill. Every so often thunder grumbles like Gods laughing and lightning flashes across like leaks of merriment from some secret astral carnival.
Avishkar was closing down. There, on the last day, I found a lovely photograph and I brought it back hoem with me me. Also, all those people who make Calcutta 'Cal'. Shabby clothes, Smudged deep kohl. Ancient, weathered and battered Longines and Piagets wristed. The dispossed. With their impeccable dictions. And sterling upbringing. And the magic ingredient: the perfect background. They who were driven out so easily and casually from their Saturday morning Golf and Sunday family tea routines from DI then Tolly then the city.
Back at work, its lovely to be mindlessly free. Watching water birds swooping down to unseen fish in unseen depths. You close you eyes without shutting them and let your mind drift free. Like trapped animal let loose, it leaps, runs and soars. For a while time stops. You are not headed anywhere, it doesnt matter where. There is no deadline. No clock ticking seconds left to 'make it'. Achievements. Rankings. Money. Power Performance Acceptance. Everything falls away from you for a moment.
Then the moment is gone.
http://www.abs-india.org/Learningnonmem/funding.aspx#q2
Originally Posted at Prerona.
I am free, yet trapped, reportable. The endless empty hours that drive most people crazy are like welcome rain on thirsty dry ground. I could spend days just staring out onto the silver mirrored water, and the grey blue sky look back and forth at each other.
Every now and then a stray bird flies across the view. In one corner there's a thatched hut floating on the water.
At home, the new wind chimes are up and sound lovely in the thunderstorm season. Its that time of the year, when I remember why I lovely this city, why I love her madly.
Alone in a corner of the terrace it looks the like the whole world has come to a standstill. Every so often thunder grumbles like Gods laughing and lightning flashes across like leaks of merriment from some secret astral carnival.
Avishkar was closing down. There, on the last day, I found a lovely photograph and I brought it back hoem with me me. Also, all those people who make Calcutta 'Cal'. Shabby clothes, Smudged deep kohl. Ancient, weathered and battered Longines and Piagets wristed. The dispossed. With their impeccable dictions. And sterling upbringing. And the magic ingredient: the perfect background. They who were driven out so easily and casually from their Saturday morning Golf and Sunday family tea routines from DI then Tolly then the city.
Back at work, its lovely to be mindlessly free. Watching water birds swooping down to unseen fish in unseen depths. You close you eyes without shutting them and let your mind drift free. Like trapped animal let loose, it leaps, runs and soars. For a while time stops. You are not headed anywhere, it doesnt matter where. There is no deadline. No clock ticking seconds left to 'make it'. Achievements. Rankings. Money. Power Performance Acceptance. Everything falls away from you for a moment.
Then the moment is gone.
http://www.abs-india.org/Learningnonmem/funding.aspx#q2
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Back in Calcutta
Phone-less
Net-less
Project-less
Loo-less & Almost
Home-less
Should be set up and back soon.
PS - This post WILL dissapear or mutate.
Once again, thunder storms. Sitting in cars looking at flashes if lightning. Once again waking up to birdcalls. A new set of windchimes, this one porcelein, graces my window. My loo is ruined, and so is Barbies, so I have to walk all the way to Moms. Once more
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Net-less
Project-less
Loo-less & Almost
Home-less
Should be set up and back soon.
PS - This post WILL dissapear or mutate.
Once again, thunder storms. Sitting in cars looking at flashes if lightning. Once again waking up to birdcalls. A new set of windchimes, this one porcelein, graces my window. My loo is ruined, and so is Barbies, so I have to walk all the way to Moms. Once more
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Wannabe
The days pass quickly. Its the 13th and there are just 7 days left for Barbie to go home. Then Mommy will leave. And finally it will be my turn.
Was a time when we dreaded coming to Dubai for our alloted month: endless hours of boredom, the death of freedom, the sudden stifle of unaccustomed things which other people, 'them', take so much for granted. Now, there is just a flurry of activity.
I wake up early in the morning to practise my golf, with Baba. Then we hang around over breakfast and talk (summer solstice, the Gita, the world wars, 'Us') till its time for him to leave for work.
Barbie wakes up. Mommy wakes up. We eat something or the other. We vegetate on the huge cream sofa and fight over what we should watch or how life should be lived or the state of the world, or of 'Us'.
Soon, its Four. Its time Baba to get home and we go to the Meridian. He and Mommy swim. We watch, photograph the ocean, talk about life and the world and 'Us'. When they are done, we hit the Sauna and the whole routine. I used to hate it, now I do it everyday. Just for the sake of the togetherness. Little snatched bits of exquisite, make believe ordinariness and togetherness, unaccustomed things which other people, 'them', take so much for granted. And in the jacuzzi, we talk about how life should be lived or the state of the world, or of 'Us'.
Then its back home and the quiet of the late evening. After a while Mommy and Baba watch the TV and we go outside and I play some football with Barbie. The makebelieve goall post is hit and she says Di thats not a goal. My back hurts, I am growing old. We head back and I try the net again, but all I get is 'page not displayed'. The dialup seems incredbly slow nowadays.
Late night, we eat dinner at the table. Like dolls in a dollhouse, but soon something happens and its 'Us' again, the game is left half played.
Then they go to bed. We are left behind. awake. sleepless sentinels of maimed dreams still struggling to walk, and bitter chocolate, still sweet. We talk of 'them' and how it could have been, should have been, would have been. Who we were, are, could become, dream of being. We are closer than ever before, yet there is something missing. I have let go. Let go of that desperate struggle to salvage her soul, atleast her soul. I have learned that it is way too late, that I am way too weak. That fate, life and blood are way too strong. We all become what we will become. That is 'destiny'. Our's. Written by our basic nature. By our basest nature. Yet, there was so much potential. Its all lost now like a flower that bloomed in the desert and lost its sweetness, wasted, spilled, in the dry desert air.
Yet, is anything ever wasted? She was. She bloomed. She lived. I survived. So will she. But I had not wanted her to have become a caracass, a shell, a walking dead, like me. But it was inevitable. The fell combination, of blood, and fate, and time and 'Us' is too much to fight.
At times I think, I will not give up. I will keep fighting. I will battle 'Them','Us'
and even Time. I will save her, if I die so doing. I will fight them all to save them. I will make love out of nothing. I will plant Roses in the desert. I will make grow a garden, make love, and ties and family.
At other times, I feel that its too much. It always was. This was the way it was meant to be. Bitter Chocolate. Chocolate Amer. Bittersweet. Loving. Hating. Stumbling. Lying. Cheating. Stealing. Learning. All from Life. All with Life. And ourselves. Why do I obsess with paper perfect people? And Honour? And clean lives? Why am I what I am, yet nurture the ambitions I do? Ramayan revisited. Its not real. Its not possible. Its a lost battle. Why keep fighting? Whom to keep fighting? How long to keep fighting?
The biggest battle is with yourself. The demons. The dirt. The imperfections. But if all your life is spent becoming, or trying to, who you aspire to be. Stark, Clean, Tall, Pure ... then whats the point? Or is it, like virtue, its own reward? But what would I know of Virtue?
Time and again the escapist in me turn to the dream, of new beginnings: I will start afresh. I will make a new life. It will be everything that I had ever dreamed of. Ramayan revisited. I will move to a greener pasture and plant my garden there. Love, Family, perfectly crafted tiny human lives, clean, normal, ordinary, middle class. I wanna be like 'Them'. I wanna be one of 'Them'. Uncomplicated and simple. No skeletons stuffed in every closet, threatening to spill out with every stray gust of wind. I'm a wanna be Goodie.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Was a time when we dreaded coming to Dubai for our alloted month: endless hours of boredom, the death of freedom, the sudden stifle of unaccustomed things which other people, 'them', take so much for granted. Now, there is just a flurry of activity.
I wake up early in the morning to practise my golf, with Baba. Then we hang around over breakfast and talk (summer solstice, the Gita, the world wars, 'Us') till its time for him to leave for work.
Barbie wakes up. Mommy wakes up. We eat something or the other. We vegetate on the huge cream sofa and fight over what we should watch or how life should be lived or the state of the world, or of 'Us'.
Soon, its Four. Its time Baba to get home and we go to the Meridian. He and Mommy swim. We watch, photograph the ocean, talk about life and the world and 'Us'. When they are done, we hit the Sauna and the whole routine. I used to hate it, now I do it everyday. Just for the sake of the togetherness. Little snatched bits of exquisite, make believe ordinariness and togetherness, unaccustomed things which other people, 'them', take so much for granted. And in the jacuzzi, we talk about how life should be lived or the state of the world, or of 'Us'.
Then its back home and the quiet of the late evening. After a while Mommy and Baba watch the TV and we go outside and I play some football with Barbie. The makebelieve goall post is hit and she says Di thats not a goal. My back hurts, I am growing old. We head back and I try the net again, but all I get is 'page not displayed'. The dialup seems incredbly slow nowadays.
Late night, we eat dinner at the table. Like dolls in a dollhouse, but soon something happens and its 'Us' again, the game is left half played.
Then they go to bed. We are left behind. awake. sleepless sentinels of maimed dreams still struggling to walk, and bitter chocolate, still sweet. We talk of 'them' and how it could have been, should have been, would have been. Who we were, are, could become, dream of being. We are closer than ever before, yet there is something missing. I have let go. Let go of that desperate struggle to salvage her soul, atleast her soul. I have learned that it is way too late, that I am way too weak. That fate, life and blood are way too strong. We all become what we will become. That is 'destiny'. Our's. Written by our basic nature. By our basest nature. Yet, there was so much potential. Its all lost now like a flower that bloomed in the desert and lost its sweetness, wasted, spilled, in the dry desert air.
Yet, is anything ever wasted? She was. She bloomed. She lived. I survived. So will she. But I had not wanted her to have become a caracass, a shell, a walking dead, like me. But it was inevitable. The fell combination, of blood, and fate, and time and 'Us' is too much to fight.
At times I think, I will not give up. I will keep fighting. I will battle 'Them','Us'
and even Time. I will save her, if I die so doing. I will fight them all to save them. I will make love out of nothing. I will plant Roses in the desert. I will make grow a garden, make love, and ties and family.
At other times, I feel that its too much. It always was. This was the way it was meant to be. Bitter Chocolate. Chocolate Amer. Bittersweet. Loving. Hating. Stumbling. Lying. Cheating. Stealing. Learning. All from Life. All with Life. And ourselves. Why do I obsess with paper perfect people? And Honour? And clean lives? Why am I what I am, yet nurture the ambitions I do? Ramayan revisited. Its not real. Its not possible. Its a lost battle. Why keep fighting? Whom to keep fighting? How long to keep fighting?
The biggest battle is with yourself. The demons. The dirt. The imperfections. But if all your life is spent becoming, or trying to, who you aspire to be. Stark, Clean, Tall, Pure ... then whats the point? Or is it, like virtue, its own reward? But what would I know of Virtue?
Time and again the escapist in me turn to the dream, of new beginnings: I will start afresh. I will make a new life. It will be everything that I had ever dreamed of. Ramayan revisited. I will move to a greener pasture and plant my garden there. Love, Family, perfectly crafted tiny human lives, clean, normal, ordinary, middle class. I wanna be like 'Them'. I wanna be one of 'Them'. Uncomplicated and simple. No skeletons stuffed in every closet, threatening to spill out with every stray gust of wind. I'm a wanna be Goodie.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Why Blog?
Time and again I face this question within myself: Why do I blog? This blog was never meant to be a catalog of my life; for that I have my journal. It was never meant to 'make friends' either. Or share thoughts or feelings. Or 'interactively ponder' on anything.
I am too self-centered, in a very literal sense, for that. Does any of us (any of 'Us') really care what anyone else thinks, about what we think?
More than that, I think I am too possesive about myself, my thoughts, my soul, my words, my 'self', to be able to share casually. Maybe too arrogant to share easily.
Originally, it was just meant to be a place where I could practise my writing, and that purpose it has served. I write much less capriciously now. I can spit out something on random topics on command, better and more than I could before. I can bear my words to be seen, to be judged, to be touched by unseen, unknown, un-cared for hands. I have come a short distance from the artist who would rather burn his canvas, than let anyone see it; because narcissitically, he couldnt bear to share it with anyone else.
Yet, when you write, truely madly deeply, you inevitably borrow nuances from your life and yourself for your craft. Once its out there, and you see bits and pieces of your self scattered on the canvas, for all to see; And, when your audience, ignore the canvas and look at you, talk to you, in bits and pieces, seeing you as the blind men see the elephant; And when he who looks at the canvas, thinks that you had been talking to him, instead of to yourself, and to the voices; Once you see that, it gives you the creeps, no other way of saying it.
Its your Art that you are offering to share, not yourself; But in extending it, you hold out a part of yourself, which is grabbed, instead of the Art and you feel trapped, sullied, violated.
Yet, its probably an inevitable price that you have to pay to satiate this craving, this hunger, to paint, to create, and to yes, I will not lie, to have it seen. Its probably as old as time and universal to Art. In Immortality, Kundera makes Hemmingway complain to Goethe about it, in their posthomus conversation (‘Instead of reading my books, they're writing books about me’). Vincent wrote letters to Theo about it (I am still looking for those letters, by the way, The collection of letters between Van Gogh and his brother Theo)
Thats not where the conflict is. It is between the self and the words; and it is between the words and the audience.
The conflict between the self and the words is like the slip between the cup and the lip. Sometimes, I have no clear objective in mind and my words are just like meandering footsteps in random directions. Sometimes I know exactly what I want to say but am grappling with the 'How'. But the worst times are when you have this clear certainity of 'What' and 'How' you want to say, but after you have written it down and it has been read and commented on, you realise what was percived, or gotten across is something completely different.
This can be due to one of 2 reasons. Either the reader didnt really care enough, to read and understand what you were trying to say. Or, you could not form, in words, precisely and neatly enough, what exactly you had thought. The former is not my problem and doesnt ineterest me. The latter, is what I care about. But hopefully, if you keep writing and getting feedback, it will sharpen your expression. Infact, the more mindless or heedless your readers are, the better practise you will get, because, at the end of the day, its upto you to get your point across, irrespective. Its like rowing with a bad coach, or or practising your golf without proper grounds: In a way, the harder it is, the better you will learn.
As for the conflict between the words and the readers, does anyone ever really read what you write? Does anyone really take in what you are trying to say, or even want to know? Does anyone actually see what you create? Maybe one or two. The rest just scan through the words looking for the scattered bits of yourself, trying to find windows to your soul, your self. Vultures. Soul collectors. Ugly, voyeuristic, greedy, vulgar and Human.
Do they, for example, when they read (or watch) Henry and June, read the poetry, the lyrical flow, the magic of words and pictures? Or do they look for Nin in the pages (or on the screen)? Trapped, helpless, a victim of her need to create? Do they want the poetry? See the colours? Seek the Art? Or do they just look for the Person?
And most of all, does it matter? What why how? You write. People read. Or does even that matter? A hundred years from now, even if you master the craft and write great tomes, which say it all and precisely, neatly, cleanly; will it matter a million years from now? And a voice says yes. There are still dreams worth your aspiration. There are still thoughts to be explored, Meanings to be hunted down, Truths to be found and it all to be written down. You may never reach it, but there are heights to be dreamed of and distances worth straining your eyes into the horizon towards, even though you die on the way, too small, too insignificant, in your frail humanity to walk with the Giants, there are still paths they trod, that you too can walk on.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
I am too self-centered, in a very literal sense, for that. Does any of us (any of 'Us') really care what anyone else thinks, about what we think?
More than that, I think I am too possesive about myself, my thoughts, my soul, my words, my 'self', to be able to share casually. Maybe too arrogant to share easily.
Originally, it was just meant to be a place where I could practise my writing, and that purpose it has served. I write much less capriciously now. I can spit out something on random topics on command, better and more than I could before. I can bear my words to be seen, to be judged, to be touched by unseen, unknown, un-cared for hands. I have come a short distance from the artist who would rather burn his canvas, than let anyone see it; because narcissitically, he couldnt bear to share it with anyone else.
Yet, when you write, truely madly deeply, you inevitably borrow nuances from your life and yourself for your craft. Once its out there, and you see bits and pieces of your self scattered on the canvas, for all to see; And, when your audience, ignore the canvas and look at you, talk to you, in bits and pieces, seeing you as the blind men see the elephant; And when he who looks at the canvas, thinks that you had been talking to him, instead of to yourself, and to the voices; Once you see that, it gives you the creeps, no other way of saying it.
Its your Art that you are offering to share, not yourself; But in extending it, you hold out a part of yourself, which is grabbed, instead of the Art and you feel trapped, sullied, violated.
Yet, its probably an inevitable price that you have to pay to satiate this craving, this hunger, to paint, to create, and to yes, I will not lie, to have it seen. Its probably as old as time and universal to Art. In Immortality, Kundera makes Hemmingway complain to Goethe about it, in their posthomus conversation (‘Instead of reading my books, they're writing books about me’). Vincent wrote letters to Theo about it (I am still looking for those letters, by the way, The collection of letters between Van Gogh and his brother Theo)
Thats not where the conflict is. It is between the self and the words; and it is between the words and the audience.
The conflict between the self and the words is like the slip between the cup and the lip. Sometimes, I have no clear objective in mind and my words are just like meandering footsteps in random directions. Sometimes I know exactly what I want to say but am grappling with the 'How'. But the worst times are when you have this clear certainity of 'What' and 'How' you want to say, but after you have written it down and it has been read and commented on, you realise what was percived, or gotten across is something completely different.
This can be due to one of 2 reasons. Either the reader didnt really care enough, to read and understand what you were trying to say. Or, you could not form, in words, precisely and neatly enough, what exactly you had thought. The former is not my problem and doesnt ineterest me. The latter, is what I care about. But hopefully, if you keep writing and getting feedback, it will sharpen your expression. Infact, the more mindless or heedless your readers are, the better practise you will get, because, at the end of the day, its upto you to get your point across, irrespective. Its like rowing with a bad coach, or or practising your golf without proper grounds: In a way, the harder it is, the better you will learn.
As for the conflict between the words and the readers, does anyone ever really read what you write? Does anyone really take in what you are trying to say, or even want to know? Does anyone actually see what you create? Maybe one or two. The rest just scan through the words looking for the scattered bits of yourself, trying to find windows to your soul, your self. Vultures. Soul collectors. Ugly, voyeuristic, greedy, vulgar and Human.
Do they, for example, when they read (or watch) Henry and June, read the poetry, the lyrical flow, the magic of words and pictures? Or do they look for Nin in the pages (or on the screen)? Trapped, helpless, a victim of her need to create? Do they want the poetry? See the colours? Seek the Art? Or do they just look for the Person?
And most of all, does it matter? What why how? You write. People read. Or does even that matter? A hundred years from now, even if you master the craft and write great tomes, which say it all and precisely, neatly, cleanly; will it matter a million years from now? And a voice says yes. There are still dreams worth your aspiration. There are still thoughts to be explored, Meanings to be hunted down, Truths to be found and it all to be written down. You may never reach it, but there are heights to be dreamed of and distances worth straining your eyes into the horizon towards, even though you die on the way, too small, too insignificant, in your frail humanity to walk with the Giants, there are still paths they trod, that you too can walk on.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
With time
I liked this poem: The Art of Losing
In the desert, the sun sets slowly. Almost lovingly. The wind blows wild and free. The skeletons on the pepper trees, the stark grey rocks of the mountains all around, the blandness of the sand and the empty roads snaking through it, the far flung houses, few and far apart, the hum of the crickets in the background, which grows to a deafening drone come evening. The sound of the sea in the distance, the road winding between the rocky mountains, and the sudden glimpse of the sea on the left, wet, deep, rich blue and green and holding up a perfect blue, cloudless sky, that springs on you without warning as you drive to town.
Inside the house, all is changed. A few years back, she refurnished it. There are huge cream leather sofa's and huge glossy grey and black tiles. There's the red telephone box bar and low lamps next to the home entertainment system. At first glance, it looks like a home, almost.
Outside, its still the same. The eucalyptus tree sighs in the breeze, arching above the garden swing, which we still sit on come evening, and whisper hushed secrets. The stars hang low in the cerullean sky. The moon is fat and yellow, glowing in the dark like an ornament in some grungy night hole. The little pool with the turtle is new. From time to time Panda runs away from us and goes there to nose a hello to the inhabtant, forever friendly and usually unwelcome. shamelessly, she never gets the hint.
Most of the times, she lies at my feet panting when I sit in the garden. The black and white stands out in the dark. I am amazed at her constant, ceaseless energy. Was Bonzo this tiring? I always beleived Dalmations are more intelligent that many other dogs. Panda of mine, where are your brains, my lovely? I shout to her, learn to be restful girl, no one will marry you if you keep jumping around all day.
Barbie said, imagine if Bonzo was still alive and we had gotten him married to Panda. Yeah, imagine a 101 Dalmations crowding the house! As if the chickens and the turtles and the fish and the cockatoo's werent enough! I tell her that if Bonzo was still alive, we wouldnt have had Panda.
She bought 'in her shoes specially'. She seemed almost apologetic for Diaz. I thought it was the biggie that was a b$£"& though. Poor little one. Imagine ur little sister has a crisis and ur too tired to listen. Bah! But heart rending anyway, when watched with ur own little sister.
And then we saw 'must love dogs'. I see everything with Cussack, so I wonder how I missed this one. It really is like that. When you cross 30 and are still single and dry, suddenly your lovelife becomes everyones business and noone has any qualms what so ever about asking the strangest of questions in the most public of places.
Friends fade with time. Suddenly your grown up and one of them. The way you swore you will never be, when friends are casualand to pass the time of the day with and noone in the world really knows you, or anything about.
Its been a week since I left home. Its so strange to think of how much life has changed in just a week. There are still strong winds blowing outside all night. They were wet and cool. Now they are dry and warm. The strict routine, delightfully boring, wonderfully, peacefully unvarying, the calm solitude, the mind numbing silence, the clean, stark, spartan emptiness of the hours, have evaporated in the desert sun. There life, and liveliness. Colours rioting everywhere. Flowers. Voices. Laughter. Chaos. But the solitude remains. The hours remain. The tired wonder remains. It just changes forms.
My mother is here too. Its like school holidays of old times. Those who have stay-at-home mums, dont know, wont understand, the delight of running in from outdoors to a kitchen smelling nicely of food and a mum cooking and smiling. And flowers on the dining table. And newspapers on the floor. She wanders around the house tidying up, in a faded gown of some sort. She watched the telly in the other room. and pops in once in a while to fatten up the calves, with strawberry smoothies and chopped papayas. And summons us once a day to sit still at her feet while she does strange things to our hair and faces.
Dad smiles and hums as he plays with his new toy: the dlsr. We are that kind of a family. Everyone does their own thing, in their own room, yet we love to be under one roof. Some strange joy in the knowlege that the others are around, though we rarely sit together and talk, unless we are fighting out something, though we know its fleeting and come the end of the month, each will go their way, to their own jobs and places.
When I am alone, I miss Edinburgh. The wet, cool winds. The 'fairy mist' like showers. The occasional snow. The quiet. The peace. The people (Some more so than the rest). But I guess it had to be this way. It was just meant to be. But how did I fall for the place so badly? I really miss it. Its almost always on my mind. But I guess its better to have found a place you really really loved, for a Gypsy soul like like mine, and be away from it, miss it, than be searching forever. And it will fade, i know. It will pass and I will forget. Nothing lasts forever.
I will be in Calcutta on the 23rd. I want to go to the Park Street Cemetary again. I want to go to the river side. It will be strange to be living in Cal without the old people, the old friends, without you. But it will be strangely sweet to be back at the lakes at 5 in the morning. Watching the silk surfaced water, turn from lead to silver as the sun wakes it up. The green dust floating on its edges. The rowers shouting at eachother as they move along. The hanging bridge, old and sighing, arching over one corner. The old haunts. SPE. The terrace. The flowers. The bonsai. The tennis. And my room will soon be what it used to be. With time, I will remember, and settle down again.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
In the desert, the sun sets slowly. Almost lovingly. The wind blows wild and free. The skeletons on the pepper trees, the stark grey rocks of the mountains all around, the blandness of the sand and the empty roads snaking through it, the far flung houses, few and far apart, the hum of the crickets in the background, which grows to a deafening drone come evening. The sound of the sea in the distance, the road winding between the rocky mountains, and the sudden glimpse of the sea on the left, wet, deep, rich blue and green and holding up a perfect blue, cloudless sky, that springs on you without warning as you drive to town.
Inside the house, all is changed. A few years back, she refurnished it. There are huge cream leather sofa's and huge glossy grey and black tiles. There's the red telephone box bar and low lamps next to the home entertainment system. At first glance, it looks like a home, almost.
Outside, its still the same. The eucalyptus tree sighs in the breeze, arching above the garden swing, which we still sit on come evening, and whisper hushed secrets. The stars hang low in the cerullean sky. The moon is fat and yellow, glowing in the dark like an ornament in some grungy night hole. The little pool with the turtle is new. From time to time Panda runs away from us and goes there to nose a hello to the inhabtant, forever friendly and usually unwelcome. shamelessly, she never gets the hint.
Most of the times, she lies at my feet panting when I sit in the garden. The black and white stands out in the dark. I am amazed at her constant, ceaseless energy. Was Bonzo this tiring? I always beleived Dalmations are more intelligent that many other dogs. Panda of mine, where are your brains, my lovely? I shout to her, learn to be restful girl, no one will marry you if you keep jumping around all day.
Barbie said, imagine if Bonzo was still alive and we had gotten him married to Panda. Yeah, imagine a 101 Dalmations crowding the house! As if the chickens and the turtles and the fish and the cockatoo's werent enough! I tell her that if Bonzo was still alive, we wouldnt have had Panda.
She bought 'in her shoes specially'. She seemed almost apologetic for Diaz. I thought it was the biggie that was a b$£"& though. Poor little one. Imagine ur little sister has a crisis and ur too tired to listen. Bah! But heart rending anyway, when watched with ur own little sister.
And then we saw 'must love dogs'. I see everything with Cussack, so I wonder how I missed this one. It really is like that. When you cross 30 and are still single and dry, suddenly your lovelife becomes everyones business and noone has any qualms what so ever about asking the strangest of questions in the most public of places.
Friends fade with time. Suddenly your grown up and one of them. The way you swore you will never be, when friends are casualand to pass the time of the day with and noone in the world really knows you, or anything about.
Its been a week since I left home. Its so strange to think of how much life has changed in just a week. There are still strong winds blowing outside all night. They were wet and cool. Now they are dry and warm. The strict routine, delightfully boring, wonderfully, peacefully unvarying, the calm solitude, the mind numbing silence, the clean, stark, spartan emptiness of the hours, have evaporated in the desert sun. There life, and liveliness. Colours rioting everywhere. Flowers. Voices. Laughter. Chaos. But the solitude remains. The hours remain. The tired wonder remains. It just changes forms.
My mother is here too. Its like school holidays of old times. Those who have stay-at-home mums, dont know, wont understand, the delight of running in from outdoors to a kitchen smelling nicely of food and a mum cooking and smiling. And flowers on the dining table. And newspapers on the floor. She wanders around the house tidying up, in a faded gown of some sort. She watched the telly in the other room. and pops in once in a while to fatten up the calves, with strawberry smoothies and chopped papayas. And summons us once a day to sit still at her feet while she does strange things to our hair and faces.
Dad smiles and hums as he plays with his new toy: the dlsr. We are that kind of a family. Everyone does their own thing, in their own room, yet we love to be under one roof. Some strange joy in the knowlege that the others are around, though we rarely sit together and talk, unless we are fighting out something, though we know its fleeting and come the end of the month, each will go their way, to their own jobs and places.
When I am alone, I miss Edinburgh. The wet, cool winds. The 'fairy mist' like showers. The occasional snow. The quiet. The peace. The people (Some more so than the rest). But I guess it had to be this way. It was just meant to be. But how did I fall for the place so badly? I really miss it. Its almost always on my mind. But I guess its better to have found a place you really really loved, for a Gypsy soul like like mine, and be away from it, miss it, than be searching forever. And it will fade, i know. It will pass and I will forget. Nothing lasts forever.
I will be in Calcutta on the 23rd. I want to go to the Park Street Cemetary again. I want to go to the river side. It will be strange to be living in Cal without the old people, the old friends, without you. But it will be strangely sweet to be back at the lakes at 5 in the morning. Watching the silk surfaced water, turn from lead to silver as the sun wakes it up. The green dust floating on its edges. The rowers shouting at eachother as they move along. The hanging bridge, old and sighing, arching over one corner. The old haunts. SPE. The terrace. The flowers. The bonsai. The tennis. And my room will soon be what it used to be. With time, I will remember, and settle down again.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Sun and Sand
This has been a really different trip. We have hardly been home sinc I got here. Planning a trip to the Hajaar mountains soon. That should be fun. Have been wanting to write for a while, but didnt know what to write about - as usual, you rn out of things to wax on about which would not involve anything you wouldnt mind people knowing about.
Saw 'In her Shoes' (lovely) and Must love Dogs (not just bcz he was in it). Reading the History of Philosophy and someone's thesis on something which is fascinating. Went to the beach almost every evening. Took lovely pictures, but cant access Flickr! Will put up soon. Had a photoshoot with Panda the Bitch. Went to an open air lounge / disc kind of place last night - lovely Mojito's - crappy place.
I am finally planning to go on a desert safari. cant beleive I have never been in all these years. I think it would be lovely to go to the mountains, or the desert, or the sea, all alone, at night, and just stay there. Here, in Dibba, I live so close to all three but never done it yet.
A friend husband had a close brush. Some problem with his heart - life style related. Gave me a scare. So many of us these days with drinking as their only leisure activity. I hate it. Have put on tonnes of weight. Will have to start working on it soon. Went shopping but just ended up buying makeup. So whats new. I love make up but 50 percent of the time I cant be bothered to use it and 50 percent of the time I go overboard and make up for the lost time.
Thats it for now. Limited net time - so will be posting less for a while. Saw Doors again, btw and listening to more Phish and Vanilla Sky.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Saw 'In her Shoes' (lovely) and Must love Dogs (not just bcz he was in it). Reading the History of Philosophy and someone's thesis on something which is fascinating. Went to the beach almost every evening. Took lovely pictures, but cant access Flickr! Will put up soon. Had a photoshoot with Panda the Bitch. Went to an open air lounge / disc kind of place last night - lovely Mojito's - crappy place.
I am finally planning to go on a desert safari. cant beleive I have never been in all these years. I think it would be lovely to go to the mountains, or the desert, or the sea, all alone, at night, and just stay there. Here, in Dibba, I live so close to all three but never done it yet.
A friend husband had a close brush. Some problem with his heart - life style related. Gave me a scare. So many of us these days with drinking as their only leisure activity. I hate it. Have put on tonnes of weight. Will have to start working on it soon. Went shopping but just ended up buying makeup. So whats new. I love make up but 50 percent of the time I cant be bothered to use it and 50 percent of the time I go overboard and make up for the lost time.
Thats it for now. Limited net time - so will be posting less for a while. Saw Doors again, btw and listening to more Phish and Vanilla Sky.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Home
Is where the heart is, they say. In Dubai after ages. Been hectic last few days. Havent slept more than a few hours at a stretch since last thursday. But eating and drinking with a vengence. Had Shworma tonight :)
Listening to the Trainspotting OST. Sorted all my mp3's on the flight. The trip from Edinburgh to Calcutta was a nightmare but the trip from Calcutta to Dubai was a dream! The difference between a company sponsered trip and a Dad sponsored trip ;)
Panda, the new dog, is a terror, but adorable! Mom is mom and Dad is a darling. My Barbie Doll is as fun as ever. Good to be here, if you dont miss there
It still hasnt sunk in that I have left there for good. My house, the little lane, the cobbled streets, the blue skies and the people. I miss the friends I had made.
No decent net connection, so more later.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Listening to the Trainspotting OST. Sorted all my mp3's on the flight. The trip from Edinburgh to Calcutta was a nightmare but the trip from Calcutta to Dubai was a dream! The difference between a company sponsered trip and a Dad sponsored trip ;)
Panda, the new dog, is a terror, but adorable! Mom is mom and Dad is a darling. My Barbie Doll is as fun as ever. Good to be here, if you dont miss there
It still hasnt sunk in that I have left there for good. My house, the little lane, the cobbled streets, the blue skies and the people. I miss the friends I had made.
No decent net connection, so more later.
Originally Posted at Prerona.