30 January, 2010

Park Parody V

She sat down where she always did. On the parapet, the sea breeze blowing its secrets through her hair, soothing frazzled nerves, whispering away the tension. It amazed her, this regularity of all the momentous things in her life happening at this very shore. It was like a divine coincidence. Almost a joke, if you had any sense of humour. There was nothing significant about this evening and yet it had this air of uncertainty about it she could almost taste. It excited her senses, in that strange way only the unexpected can.

Her thoughts began eddying around her in unforgiving knots. She ran her fingers through her hair as if to get rid of all the thinking. The smell of smoke in it made her wrinkle her nose. 'Must be that autowallah.' She smoothed her skirt over her knees. The scab had left its mark. She felt it and smiled slightly, an onlooker would've have seen a grimace. Love had a cruel way of giving up on her time and again. Or maybe she got tired of it before it bloomed. Either way, they didn't understand each other - she shoving it into a corner, while it gave her the cold shoulder ever so often. 'Oh I am through with this line of thought. Can I just enjoy this breeze and not let it lull me into devious routes?'

The smell of some freshly roasted bhutta tickled her. Uncrossing her legs, she got herself one, extra nimbu squeezed onto it just the way she liked. 'Aah. I shall enjoy this. Right now. Without the past or a future riddle me into ignoring the present. Wow I think evenings make me pensive! What has gotten into me lately?' She chewed through the corn, meticulously, almost angrily. Chomped through row after row in quiet determination. Like she was swallowing one thought at a time. And still images flitted through her mind, almost gone in a glimpse.

Forgotten flowers in a basket. A pale moon shining obscenely. Notes on a piano and words too familiar. Hands wrapped around her. Hands too shy to hold her. Hands holding hers. Hands refusing to hold hers. Hands wrung in despair. Hands lifted in anger. Hands upturned in wonder. Hands saying hello. Hands waving goodbye. She chewed on, abandoning herself to the glory of a thought, then pushing it away in mock anger. She played on this way, enjoying the swish of the waves, the lilt of the breeze. And then, as if too soon, he came by and sat down.

She frowned in disappointment, "I thought you weren't coming." "Not coming? But I told you I would." "Well then, I guess I hoped you wouldn't. Remember that solitude thing I was harping about? That was painfully true. And the believe it or not, turns out my hunch, my hunch was wrong. Sometimes I am as bad reading myself as I am reading others. I am so wrong. So very wrong. I should have known you would come."

23 January, 2010

Smile please?

You know how stumbling upon an old favourite song can just make your day? I just found two of mine which made up for this month.
  1. Blurry by Puddle of Mudd
  2. The Zephyr Song by Red Hot Chillie Peppers

: )

22 January, 2010

"Maybe tomorrow
I'll find my way back home
Maybe tomorrow..."

I love the hooooo a ahoooo bit the most. It's like honey. Also, it's time for a journey. I'd been itching for one for so long now.

16 January, 2010

Savoury Scents

Image: Man 1

She touched the back of her neck, caressing it gently where it was sore. A loose strand of hair had escaped her bun, defying the pins and clips that tried to tame it. As she arched her neck, she closed her eyes, a smell wafting up to her nostrils. Sweet and heady. Teasing in an innocent, virtuous way. She didn't want the smell to disown her. She clung onto it in mute desperation. The sweetness of those mogra flowers. Motiya. Strings of them braided into her hair. Losing themselves amongst her tresses. Dancing in tune to the breeze. Heaving and sighing. Smiling and writhing. They wound around her. Coal and moon dust. Playing each other into submission. Fingers would run through her hair, entangling themselves in those strings of imperfect pearls. Crushing them with a ruthlessness so sadistic, it would wrench an anguished cry from her. And they would lie, petals and anthers, drenched in their own perfume. Trampled into the past. But their smell would linger, like a potent afterthought that hadn't been put aside yet. She would smile as a breeze would tickle her nostrils, with the scent so sweet, it was almost cloying in its perfection.

Mogra. He did not want to buy a single string. The white flowers tinged with buttery yellow lay in neat strings, so innocent he could scarcely believe the torment they were creating in his mind. Little beads of moistened memories. Drops of forgotten moonshine. Serene and silent. He looked at the young hawker, a little boy. He wore shoes without laces, the holes gaping like three pairs of judging eyes. He pushed the pearl strings in his face. "Late ho gaya hai sahab. Das mein teen le lo. Tumhari dulhan khush ho jayegi." From where did they learn these lines, he thought. He stared sullenly at the traffic lights, willing them to change before the perfume caught onto him, lingering like a dream dreamt too often. He felt his senses swoon into submission. Her hair. The pearls startled by its inky blackness. They shone like drops of scented dew, weaving through those tresses, perfuming them with guileless love. He'd reach out and crush them gently, their souls mingled into her blackness, purifying whatever they touched. And then in the morning, the beads that were still breathing awoke, fluttering open their petals, but just slightly. They were more cautious now, holding onto the last breaths of their scented strength. The buds would become half-hearted flowers, wrung off their passion, they glistened no longer.

"Sahab le lo na."
The little boy made him spring out of his reverie. He nearly slapped him. Unperturbed by the sudden change in demeanor, the urchin moved away to next car. The smell stayed back. Its vacillating proximity was claustrophobic. And suddenly so cruel. Images flashed before him. Flowers. Garlands and bouquets. Flowers. Strings and bunches. Flowers. Wreaths and petals.

04 January, 2010

Faltering footsteps

Did you hear our footsteps?
As they crunched over the gravel
Dodging inky puddles
That mirrored the mist
In undetermined haste.

Did you hear our footsteps?
Walk over the moist leaves
An odd dry one crackled
The rest mumbled in
muffled resigned protests .

Did you hear our footsteps?
They fell into a strange harmony
Rising and falling against a time
that had slowed down
in this shivering night.

Did you miss our footsteps?
As you walked over this morning
The puddles had dried themselves
Of fear. For there would be no feet
Dodging their wily faces tonight.


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