Late Bloomer

The glow of the screen, or the turn of a page,
After midnight, it’s all but the same,
A cry emanates from the depths of my grey,
‘It’s too early! Come on now, stay!’

With drooping, blearing, wilting eyes,
I grope about for the date and time,
My heart plummets, the news ain’t good,
For the time’s for bed, I should sleep.
I should.

But the heart is the guide
For my brain tonight,
The desire to delay
Leaves all else in disarray.

I manage to squeeze in a chapter or two,
Or perhaps an episode of a TV show,
Hell, even half a movie would do
Till finally, off to sleep I go.

How wonderful it is, this dreamless reverie
Surrounding me, while I curl up, comfy,
A time when this world, so noisy and polluted,
Fades into something multicoloured and convoluted.

But barely after entering the cocoon,
The alarm tune sounds, and I screech back home,
My nerves on fire dragging me up
Forcing me to acknowledge that my time is up.

My mother trained me impeccably
To wake up without a whine or whimper,
Bless her commitment and sensibility
For making me such a diligent kipper.

But diligence only goes so far,
It flies right out once I sit in the car,
The rocking motion, back and forth,
Puts me back in slumber mode.  

Striding up to my desk at work,
Outwardly looking lean and tough,
My mind, however lags behind.
Guiding my body in a trance divine.

Work is barely an effort for me,
Thank God it comes so naturally!
For if I behaved what I felt inside,
My job, my life, would be in the ‘Reject’ pile.

I trudge my way through the day,
Pausing to yawn, stretch and wallow,
And although it’s far from a bale of hay,
My keyboard acts well as a pillow.

Every moment spent at work,
Makes me regret the night before,
But in regret I hate to lurk,
So I decide to tackle its core.

The sky deepens and so does my resolve,
Tonight’s the night I ignore its calls,
No matter how hard it coaxes and pushes,
Early to bed I’ll be, in all cases.

The glow of the screen, or the turn of a page
After midnight, it’s all but the same,
A cry emanates from the depths of my grey,
‘It’s too early! Come on now, stay!’

The Great Indian Festive Season

The fourth quarter of our Earth's great journey around the Sun approaches, just another of the many that have passed and that are to come. An almost audible buzz begins to manifest; the streamlined culmination of countless thoughts emitted by millions of minds. One word dominates the cerebral chatter. Diwali.

The celestial revolutions of our planet provide us with four seasons - clearly inadequate for the omnipotent human race. Festivities worldwide give rise to seasons of their own. Hailed in India as the Christmas of the West and the Eid of the Middle East, Diwali is India's chance in the whole year to pull out all stops and create an atmosphere that even changes the topics of unacquainted chitchat. No longer does one speak with a stranger about the weather. Phone conversations with family far away have an undertone of anticipation about the holiday season. The heart of the foodie beats faster as visions of the full glory of India's culinary treasures come to mind. Shopkeepers start placing massive orders of usually slow items ranging from dry fruits to delicate china, while conglomerates drop prices to an all-time low. Customers, following the clues like some bizarre treasure hunt, swarm the malls and shopping streets in search for a bigger TV or a quieter washing machine.

Nine days of feeble personal sacrifice and the immersion and ignition of idols, each bigger than the last, set the mood for the days to come. Wallets and purses become lighter and homes fill up with gifts for and from others. Visitors drop in at the drop of a hat. Bellies protest against the barrage of dry fruits, while endorphin-saturated brains send smile signals to the lips. People who have been ignored all year are suddenly contacted, visited and gifted, as if in attempt to make up for the lengthy period of neglect. And as always, it works like a charm.

The festive mood begins to permeate the veils and walls that separate religions. All houses participate in a silent battle of one-upmanship, in attempt to make the prettiest contribution to the landscape. Twinkling LEDs border windows and balconies, or hang off them like glowing snakes. Florals adorn the grilles, and rangolis, the floors. Parties and melas bring socialising to a community level. Traditional garb and jewellery, newly purchased, transforms even simple gatherings into ethnic fests. 

But it's not all rosy. As the weeks hurtle towards the big day, the media screams out to banish fireworks, while schools threaten to banish students who don't. Child labour activists, who have formed an image of themselves akin to Kumbhkaran, the Ramayana's drowsiest character, start banging afresh at the doors of Sivakasi, the fire cracker production hub of India. Large shipments of crackers, many of which are destined to burn human skin, are sent to every corner of the country imaginable. Clogged roadways make distribution of gifts as big a nightmare as it is a pleasure to receive them, and bomb scares loom large, making even a simple walk to the market a potential trip down death lane.

Finally, the sun rises on a day that deceptively looks like any other. It progresses as usual, with an exception of pujas throughout the day in different locations, and the internet showing up an exceptionally high search trend of the word 'Diwali'. One would wonder if all the fuss was even worth it at all. One would. But doesn't. For it's when the sun dips below the trees, that the silence breaks.

It is postulated that the moment of creation of the Universe was one big explosion lasting barely for even a noticeable period of time. Diwali night, in time frame humans are accustomed to, is something similar. Spectacular airborne fireworks light up the skies making night seem like day. Tiny fires spring to life on every windowsill, porch and step. Stars up above shine dully like American diamonds in the backdrop, while rubies, sapphires, amber and emeralds of exceptional brilliance, and in never before seen quantities, steal their glory. A constant din of explosions is commonplace, with only the bigger one's managing to catch ones attention. The delighted squeals of children intersperse...

And then, just as soon as it started, it is over, leaving behind satisfaction, and hopefully a weekend to prepare oneself to return to the grind of everyday life.

For me, Diwali's annual catch-line, 'The Festival of Lights' has a deeper, more philosophical meaning. It is a time to reconnect with the the soul. What exactly the soul is, has been and shall remain, in all foreseeable future, debatable (although, what I came up with a few days ago engrossed in a conversation about the Large Hadron Collider with a friend was that the soul is a collection of Higgs Boson particles, hence having measurable mass :P). By soul in this context, I mean the collection of thoughts, feelings, actions, achievements, aims and agendas, as well as people, that make each day we wake up to, worth living for. It is the celebration of the 'light within' that guides our human self to perform superhuman feats every day. 

So, allow yourself to get lost in the din created by society during Diwali. But take out some time to reflect upon the things that make YOU such an indispensable part of that society, as well as of the things that you have done, and that are left to do that would make YOU stand out, just as the most beautiful of houses, or prolonged and colourful of fireworks do.

Happy Diwali and Cheers to Light, Inside and Out!

The Games We Play

“Darling! Dinner’s ready!”

“Be right there, sweetie!”

“Is that the TV I hear? When are you going to learn that I hate seeing my day’s work going cold?

“What’s that, hon?!”

“Did you even hear a word I said?”

“Just a second…”

Aaaand that’s OUT! That was close! Nadal can’t afford such close shaves…

“FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAK!”

“That is ENOUGH from you, Amrish Mehta! Have you no SENSE?”

“What is wrong with you, woman? Huh? Whaddya got a problem with now?”

“SHOUTING ABOOSES IN FRONT OF OUR CHILDREN! JOINING THE TABLE LATE EVERY DAMN DAY! THROWING SOCKS AND SHOES AROUND! THIS IS NOT THE MAN I MARRIED!”

“SO WHAT’S YOUR POINT?”

“MY POINT IS –“

“WHY ARE YOU KIDS MAKING SO MUCH NOISE?! And what’s this blanket, Meera? I remember telling you to FOLD it and put it inside the drawer. I do NOT remember telling you to make a tent out of it! I want it done. NOW. And march straight down to the dinner table after that. Can I trust you to bring your little brother down with you? Or will you make a chair out of him on the way?

What were you doing under there, anyway?"

“Playing Ghar-Ghar”

Fight all you want. Behind closed doors.

The Second Sin

My eyes fly open with what I was waiting to hear
The melody that continues to drum on my desk
It barely manages to catch my ear
For my mind is at work, no longer at rest.

It’s not for work, for fun, or to pray
That I sit up straight, my belly threatening to betray
As it grumbles and growls, politely no more
With breakfast alone, it’ll settle the score.

The spread isn’t sumptuous, and rather small,
A change, however, from the day before
Toast with eggs, scrambled and warm
Enough to cease what now threatens to roar.

I dress to step out of my room, my home
Leaving my modest buffet empty and forlorn
But I cheer myself up, for it won’t be long
Before I’m in a cafeteria,
Hell, it’s my break, what’s wrong?

Hours pass as the seasons change
Till I find me in a mall, my desk a million miles away
I scan the restaurants in my range
Hands wringing, eyes bulging, tongue out, splayed.

Finally I decide upon Pepito’s
Neither Indian, nor Chinese, but Mexican
I hog on Tacos, Quesadillas and Burritos
Till my intestines fail me,
And I rush to empty what has recently burgeoned.

Ah, the pleasure of freshly vacated bowels,
That I could write about in many a novel
For it has made space in my endless pit
For teatime, just a bit after six.

I head on over, back to work
Only to return shortly afterward
Biscuits, scones and coffee with crème
In the company of a co-worker, a friend.

The sun dips below the visible dome,
Leaving behind a carrot orange, then a grapey purple sky
But little do I notice as I drive back home
Taking mental stock of the vegetable and meat supply.

To get the right flavours and nuances
One must add the right condiments and spices
I chop and grill, pouring in the sauces
Voila! You have dinner, lacking only glasses and swashes.

So I serve me some wine to go with the grill,
In a glass, perfectly tapered, tall and thin
A repeat of the Simpsons and the lights dimmed nice,
Burrp…Ah! This is the life!

The bed is as I had left it, ruffled, but clean
Waiting to engulf me in sweet slumber
I promptly snuggle into the covers,
The corners of my mind forming,
Yet another delicious dream.

On Opinions...And Then Some More

It's been, well, a long time since I started this blog out of boredom, curiosity and the pure desire to just write. I managed to satiate all those things, and in the process also garnered a lot of appreciation, criticism (and also a helluva lot of spam) in the form of comments and my 'ingeniously' included feature of rating posts. Inspiration, interest and availability of time played a serious role in determining the frequency of posting. But in spite of my long drawn absence from the blogging scene over the past two years, I still see a strong influx of visitors on the page. I've got to say, it feels great. Come on. I am human after all. (Or am I? Hmm, well. Guess this shows God loves attention as well).

This isn't one of those 'hearfelt Thank You' notes that famous people seem to include sometime or the other in their work (and neither does this sentence imply that I consider myself even remotely famous, though it's nice to toy with such a prospect). It is more of an acknowledgement of just how much a few of your words, for the many that I write, mean to me. Even if you're out there to pan my prose, it's a standpoint nonetheless. That's the beauty of opinionated writing. Along with giving your take on things, it amasses opinions, both negative and positive at an (almost) equal scale.

A useful note for everyone. I hardly associate with most of my previous writing anymore. People change and so do their perspectives. It's all a matter of time. Everyone, most of all, the less experienced, dabble in immaturity from time to time. Once you've seen more of the world, it allows for the formation of new as well as modification of existing stances. So judging or defaming my personality based on the silly opinions I put forth is not only sillier, but also an unncessary exercise.

Continuing with character analysis (just 'cause I'm enjoying it so), under normal circumstances, what remains constant is your set of morals and values. Beliefs strengthen, or weaken to allow the fortification of a new set. In such a case, the new belief set is accompanied by the confidence that changing over will do you good. Alongside, if you permit it to happen, your capabilities only grow, They, of course in the case of invincible me, proliferate limitlessly. ;)

But then again, these are opinions yet again. Keep checking back. I look forward, as always, to your invaluable comments on all past, present and future posts.

Varsha Ki Asha

Contrary to what the title might suggest, this isn't a discussion about bold adult themes in a B-grade Hindi film. In spite of its annual frequency, rain is a phenomena that repeatedly manages to evoke completely polarised feelings in me year after year. The Lord above has never believed in moderation when it comes to Delhi weather. Winters are cold enough to make the flabbiest of people feel like iced jello. Summers put up stiff competition to the middle eastern deserts, with the Rajasthani north-westerns winding their way into the most sealed of houses. These winds are appropriately called 'loo', for just how disgusting they are. Spring and Autumn are mere teasers of the splendour of nature and are all-too-soon usurped by one of the other two extremities.

While these two dictators are locked year-round in a battle for supremacy, a cloak-and-dagger revolution builds up and eventually throws itself into the strife, coming off as the victor. The titans are kept bay for a while, held off by an unrelenting legion.

The monsoons are here.

Bless the low pressure over the deserts of Rajasthan. The heat of the sands that was pushed into the same category as a lowly toilet suddenly becomes the harbinger of long awaited precipitation. A thick, grey coverlet blots out the sun and fills the hearts of millions with a variety of emotions. Lovers get another excuse to flail their romance, while beggars finally get their long awaited bath. Prayers ascending from the villages are answered. The crops get their dose, implicitly giving villagers their own. Pollution laden vegetation is suddenly green again and the muck of the cities is washed away for a fresh coat of grime to be reapplied in the coming months. Children, as well as adults who enjoy becoming children once in a while, happily hop in puddles while drops of water the size of crazy balls drench them from head to the pinky toe.

This is the effect this surreptitious inclusion to the weather system has on the population. The first few days of the downpour are euphoric, with the radio, TV and print media celebrating in unison with the people they address. I give it three consecutive days. Postdiluvian, the croons become curses, the puddle bobbling jacks duck for cover, trees fall, traffic gets disrupted and soils saturate, destroying the once arid crops. The deluge even dilutes flowering romance (for what is love but a complex chemical reaction?). Sweat pours down and does a better job of showering than the rain. Suddenly, wistful memories of sunshine resurface and people are seen glancing with drooping faces at the enveloping gloom. Finally, to add to the overhanging misery, out come the anthropods from the depths of hell. A whole squadron of leeches, ants and flying beasties with an inexorable relish for human blood silently squirm out of their long exile. The feast is on, and this time, we're the meat.

The clouds exhaust their quota for the time being. The sky is a sickly blue again. The country stabilises. But human nature demands missing something only after it's gone. So the silent wishes restart. The heavens comply. A drizzle. Hearts uplift. The way is clear for another go.

The sinusoid goes on this way. However, the fact remains that revolutionaries are emotional. The poor monsoon just can't take it any more. It weakens under the pressure of mass upheavals. That's the opportunity the plotting winter has been waiting for. It gives our protagonist here a kick in the bee-hind and with a mighty sweep of its icy cloak throws us all at its mercy. (I love winters by the way. But I love being dramatic just as much!)

I'm in the downswing right now, as I sit about scratching an enormous red patch one of these creepy crawlies has given me. A re-yearning for the cool, moisture laden breeze should be underway in a couple of hours now. Wait a second. Here it is.