And Then There Were None

13th September 2001

Sometimes you stand alone, you feel alone and you cry. You can’t believe that a single body can be wracked with so much loneliness and grief. And then in the middle of a good cry you suddenly realize that life can’t be coming to an end as there will be many more nights like this one.

December 2007

I found this year’s old entry last night. And it’s true… there is always another night like the last one. I think maybe I meant it well… that life goes on. Though if you’re still crying over the same stuff 7 years down then God help you. I didn’t. Phew! That sure is a relief.
(I’m a silver line watcher.)

Points to be noted:
1. Crying blocks your nose but clears your head.
2. Crying in the middle of the night when the world around you is dark and silent really adds to the drama. You hear every shuddering breath. And every whimper sounds louder than it is.
3. If you can't find someone to call and cry with - 2 extra minutes of salt water shedding is due to you.
4. The morning after headache is bad. You might as well have sleep walked and funneled down a couple of bottles of undiluted vodka.
5. I look ugly when I cry. (I checked). So I do it rarely.

Greater Expectations

Calvin: Here I am, happy and content. ...but not euphoric. So now I'm no longer content. I'm unhappy. My day is ruined. I need to stop thinking while I'm ahead.

I beamed as Sytar opened the birthday present I’d got her. Everyone waited for the unveiling. (I’d talked a bit about the splendor of it) The silver wrapper came off and Sytar smiled at the candle holder. Light the candle I commanded. She did and oohed. I smiled wider. The others hmmphed.
What?
India, you said the dragonflies dance on the ceiling.
I thought they also glowed green.
Sky just shook her head at me.
What? I repeat. It’s pretty.
Mars explains to Harry – India’s fatal flaw is that not only does she have excessive imagination but she actually seems satisfied with how little reality matches it.
I blithely ignore them all. So the dragonflies didn’t dance on the ceiling but they’re flickering merrily on the green glass of the holder.

Mars got back from Shanghai with kites. Unlike me, Paris implies more the less she says. A hint here, a word there. They were dragons with impressive wingspans. A medley of colors and flash like a battle in air. There were even pandas that the dragons were fighting to protect. So we went for a kite flying evening in a relaxed burb of Cesspool. The sun was gentle, happy groups flitted around with strings. Paris started to take the kite out of its packaging.
The dragon’s mine, the dragon’s mine. I book it hurriedly. Ha ha.
The kites unfold and I stare.
That’s a dragon? It’s neon pink! Isn’t it supposed to be a commanding bronze?!! It looks like a butterfly could fell it!
Paris tries to look nonchalant.
Mars mutters a sotto voce; Kites of a feather fly together.

So it figures that a few weeks ago when Myrine and Piper came in for a day’s visit Paris and I had plans which envisaged them having the most fabulous, exciting, never-want-to-go-back time in Cesspool.
This was our city. We’d take them to Bagel Shop and for a walk up to the fort to enjoy the sea, to some lovely shops that are stories on their own and for a night of hard drinking and dancing. Fortunately we got a reality check even before their arrival. I heard that not only were another cousin and his wife planning to be here the same day but also Mrs. H.
Hmm... Suddenly the visions of hazy fumed revelers and afternoon long gossip sessions in a cozy hamlet receded. Paris and I sucked it in (not very well). Nothing of the day went according to plan (plan A that is) and instead all we did was shop. I felt like the parent of an ungrateful child. All those days of planning and putting together the best day for them and all Myrine and Piper wanted to do was shop.
Lesson learnt – sometimes your expectations have to be tempered with other people’s.
I figured the evening can only get worse. I was trying to picture Mrs. H who can’t control her tch’s in the middle of F.R.I.E.N.D.S and who I’ve never even let in the same house for Sex and the City come with us to a den of iniquity. But by now I had achieved Zen. Or more correctly I just didn’t give a damn anymore. So we dressed up and went clubbing. I saw Mrs. H do a quick glance around. She sat down in a corner while we burst out singing the minute we entered. Then Elvis belted out a number and she shimmied onto the floor. I grinned. Piper’s resolve was bolstered. She dug out her pack and lit up a cigarette.
Hippy hippy shake. I bobbed up and down to hide the Classic Milds from view. Shake it to the left. Twisted. Shake it to the right. Slid back. Suddenly a hand snakes its way around me, Mrs. H gives me a wry-smug look and takes a drag from Myrine. I shake my head. Paris’s jaw drops open. Not for long though. Mrs. H passes THE CIGARETTE to her daughter-in-law. They turn a bend together.
And another lesson was learnt – Sometimes, just sometimes I find that I have low expectations and people can be and do so much more than I let them in my narrow imagination.

Dr: Yes a baby girl. I Fear there is No Cure

I’d have liked it if my birth was an environmental event. Some pathetic fallacy that I could prop up against. Pounding rain was Mars’ herald. In marwadi fashion someone ran from our house to a relative’s beating a plate announcing his birth. Titania came with first light after a moonless night. Their entry on stage was cued with lights and sound, drama and romance. I came at 6.06 am. There is no adjective for my birth. I don’t know if the dawn was soft or bright or unusually dark. I was just born. And despite nature I was born with the love gene.

Jr. Kg. I’d staked out my territory. I defended when he stuttered and looked disdainfully upon the class hunk.
Class 1: I got punished with guy and tentatively thought about holding hands.
Class 3: My mind found itself instinctively understanding smarmy lyrics like “duniya maange apni muraade, main toh mangu saajan, rahen salaamat mera sajna aur sajna ka aangan.’ Yes really. All bloggers are on a blogger oath to forget this.
So you get the picture. I can not help this. I was born this way. Way before books and romantic movies got hold of me and worsened the situation. Some people are born honest. Others are born happy. I was born believing.
When I learnt words I asked “How did mumma and papa get married?” and I got the answer, “Mumma proposed to Papa at the airport.” That’s it. There was no going back.
The story grew yearly. Different perspectives were added. How Mrs. H waited 6 months while Mr. H came back from his conference. How Mr. H had gone on a fast unto death till his mother agreed. How Mr. H dragged Uncle Red from the horse races to enlist his help. How Uncle Red sent out the wedding cards so that the match could not be canceled. There was a whole real life film in the family. And testimony to it was the chemistry between Mr. and Mrs. H.

Now we’d heard the tale from every possible source but Mrs. H. It was generally acknowledged in the family that Mr. H is the more romantic and expressive while Mrs. H still plays hard to get. It just didn’t seem to gel with the image of a woman who proposed and then waited for an answer. No matter how many times we asked her how and why and what she was thinking all you could drag out of her was a “don’t remind me. The foolishest thing I did.” We’d all laugh and put it down to her dry character.
But recently Paris and I cornered Mrs. H. We decided that an answer must be had and that it was a mite suspicious that she never said a word. Was Titania illegit? Hehhe.

So we hounded and hounded till exasperated Mrs. H said, “oof… he promised me that he’d take me for a holiday every year.” Silence. I could tell she was serious. After all these years this was the truth behind the Great Love Story. Mrs. H hurriedly added, “and he was the decentest guy I knew. Better than the options my father was coming up with.” Suddenly it all made sense. My mother was not a romantic. She was practical. She got married for security and comfort and because the known devil also happened to be man about town.

I have been proposed to a couple of times. They were people I adored and rich and could have offered me the world both emotionally and otherwise. But I couldn’t offer it back. If I’d accepted them I’d have been Mrs. H.
On this issue I am never going to want to be my mother. I was perplexed. My ailment seemed even worse when I realized that the love gene was not inherited but actually something that was all mine. I couldn’t blame my mother for my irrational choices.
Then I was talking to Salvatore and he laughed and said, “but don’t you see…you’re like Mr. H. You’ve taken after him.” Ahhh.
I always thought that I wanted Heathcliff but now I have to think that maybe I am Heathcliff.

Calling: One of Nine

The last time I was tagged about a year ago. I was playing rugby. I got tagged again. This time it’s more painful than being flattened by a 6 footer brother who doesn’t care much about your bones.

So fellow blogger Phish (whom I refer to as Frederick and the P.G. Wodehouseish guy in this blog) tagged me to write on the "strengths of a writer."
I think Phish covered most of everything from a reader’s perspective. So I’m going to tackle the ‘what makes a good writer?’ from another angle. (Read his gems on Murighonto).

1. If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning. If I had a bell to ring, I’d ring it in the evening. If I had a song to sing, I’d sing all over this land. Now I have a pen and it’s sitting on the desk.
   So what I’m saying is that you ain’t a writer unless u write. Most writers that I have met whether they be from the book world or film world tell me the same thing - you need discipline to write. Delusions of artistic muses are all very well but if you really want to write, you have to sit down everyday, every single day, and write. Doodle. Same line over and over again. Just the title. The idea. The line. The first line again. And again. And one day you will have completed your work. (you might read it and scrap it but completing it will be like having climbed up Mordor with friggin’ Frodo on your back whining and whinging and knowing that you’re finally rid of him.) (In my version Sam flings him over with the precious.)
   
2. Read like a butterfly. Write like a bee. I often enjoy the process of researching my subject to such an extent that I hardly end up writing. The story grows and grows with every little fact I unearth till it reaches unmanageable proportions and pops like Li’l Jinx’s balloon. Be clear about your story. What it wants to say and what it has to say. And leave the extra information for personal trivia kicks.


3. Everything is grist to the mill. If you’re a writer you can’t afford to have private emotions. Be conscious of everything you go through and be unashamed about using it. No point in writing what you don’t know. If for no other reason then believe me someone will be able to say it better. You’re like the actor who looks at himself in the mirror when he cries. When I read George RR Martin’s epic series A Song of Ice and Fire I put paid to any ideas I might have had of attempting a series till I had lived a bit more. The magnitude of that work is compelling.


4. Change the shape of your box. Push your ideas beyond the first thought. Often when my mind is taken over and I first write out the idea, I am loath to change its framework. I like chapter one to remain chapter one and characterizations to be faithful to the first thought. But don’t limit any aspect of your work. Sure there’s a story framework it must stick to but you can punch the box from inside. Take every idea to as many levels as you can – first thought, opposite perspective, plain crazy, logical, etc.


5. All ideas have a life and character of their own. This is something I really and truly believe. If you let an idea play in your mind sooner or later it’ll tell you whether it wants to be a poem, a short story, an article, a film or a book. And when you see its face you’ll be stunned at how natural the fit is. Don’t force an idea into a regular space and don’t rush it. I remember being stuck with an idea of a masquerade personifying facets inside our self that I thought was play but it just wouldn’t come. And after months of niggling with it, one afternoon at work it fell into place in a poem about id, ego and superego that I call An Ode to Maya.

That’s it I think. I’m on a learning curve myself with this so any tips are welcome. I might have completely missed the point Phish was asking me to make. But there’s the nice world of possibilities associated with there – words mean a lot of different things.
Long live writing and writers!

picture courtesy: www.allposters.com

Personal Ad From a Past Life Slave Girl

Brown flesh with round scar,
Oft broken white bone,
Red blood spilt and stored
Restless soul growing old
All displayed for slaver’s trade.

The body on sale has no owner
Her price is mind and gold
Brazen flowers, forced kisses,
Hard words from silver tongue
And a weighty chain keeping her ankle cold.

The In-Limbo Cancan

It’s an Air Conditioningless day here at Surreal But Mice Film Office. I am still here. My pointless dedication shall be the end of me.
I have finished 6 months 10 days and 7 hours here. I think this is now my second longest job. The hot air makes me restless. It’s muggy and you think that hmm maybe if I have to feel muggy I’d rather feel muggy in Marrakech. So here are my options now:

• A party planner for children birthday’s in Dublin. I’d have to wear a red nose and learn the unicycle. But I am determined at all new careers.


• A member of a dance group in stage shows. I’m listening to ‘You can cancan’ from the Moulin Rouge. I am just a costume short of a full show. There’s an inverted pun here somewhere. I forget the correct word. Phish?


• A home stylist. I hear interior decoration requires some learned skill. I spit on it. I am a home stylist.


• A gift specialist. Busy corporate guys or anyone rich enough to afford me can engage me to buy/make gifts and remember occasions. Wishes for free.


• A writer who has family money. One or the other is always missing.


• A shop owner. I have a children’s store called “the rainbow gold”. It’s quite magical. A child wouldn’t want to leave. But I don’t like kids of non-blood (my own) beyond 5 minutes so this is a tough job.


• A font creator. My latest favourite is Gigi. Like the French movie it has frivolous character.


• A lady of leisure. Which means my career would be Wife To Rich Man. This might be an easy job to execute but it isn’t an easy job to get.


• I can't believe I almost forget. A librarian. I already wear specks. To this i will add a tailored white button down shirt, knee length skirt and stilettos. I will also meet an adventurous young man who visits the library but never reads a book. hmm.

Okay I’ve made it to 6 months, 10 days and 7 hours and 5 minutes.

photo courtesy: http://www.flickr.com/ i love this picture. the colors are so energetic.

Much Ado

I am 7 years old and ever since I first understood things and words I have known that toads like me. I was around 2 when I remember my mother throwing a spoon of honey at a nice speckled green toad that perched itself on my high chair for a friendly stare. She sliced at the poor thing like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill.
At school if I was sitting by the window one of the garden toads would often drop by. 2+ 2 = 4 was accompanied by the blink blink of a visiting toad. I never really thought about all this too much. But my parents spent many happy hours contemplating my imagined magical abilities. One of their discussions went like this:
“She’s always got a toad around.”
“Maybe she has lucky lips and they’re all princes looking to be turned back.”
“Honey, I think that works for frogs, not toads.”
“Maybe she’s a fairy.”
“Or a mushroom.”
I ran away at that point because I really didn’t fancy being poked at by a fork. Why couldn’t I just be a simple girl whom toads liked?

***

Anyone is welcome to complete the above.

Magic Beans: Part 1, 2 & 3

I lie on a sun bed on the beach framing a photo of my hand attempting to grab the rainbow in the sky. The diamond on my middle finger identifies that I’m the rainbow chaser. There… I think I’m getting the right light. The diamond’s sparkling, my hand’s perfectly placed around the rainbow and the colors look bright enough.
“aaack…. Alanis. Get out of my frame.”
She gives me her profile instead. The foot massager is grinning as he continues working on my not-so-receptive toes. I suppose it isn’t often, even in Goa, that you see one woman astride another.
Alanis is quite comfortable there. And if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from my friends it is… that you can never beat them, you must always join them.
I sigh as I click a lovely shot of the rainbow shooting over Alanis. Then I push her off.

****

Lazy days begin with breakfasts that can be lingered over. A shack of wood with plastic curtains keeping the rain out and a soft breeze bringing some drops in is where we spent every morning in Goa. The first day began like this – “Fill me in.” Some things need to be talked about. The subject may be trifle troubling but you get it done quick and clean.
“Aldair says he doesn’t care enough anymore.”
“Sidhhartha says he’s dating the woman he was just friends with.”
(We groan at the cliché)
“I think I shouldn’t have called things off. I mean it’s not like I’m getting married tomorrow.”
I frown at Katharine at the same time that Alanis smiles. Kat just looks plaintive.
The sensitive stuff dealt with we launch into character assassinations and bitch-a-thons. Salvatore, Quinn, Menon, all of the above, are dissected and cremated.
The last time The Four of us spent a night together it was the night before Paris’s wedding. In honour of that event we bitched out every guy we knew save Mars. The night passed quickly. Mr. H’s warnings to let the bride get her sleep so she glowed flew around with the cuckoo.
This is 6 months later and Paris has left her husband behind to holiday with her friends. Over breakfast and in the midst of saying, “he’s really manic.” Alanis breaks thought to say, “You know I don’t think I’d mind if Mars was here.”
Kat nods good naturedly. I think about it and agree. Paris just grins.

*****

Katharine and I walk along the beach. I started picking stones for Rosalie (my youngest niece) and somewhere started holding them for myself. There’s something magic about finding shining color in water, makes you wish there was a story with each stone. The green one fell off the mermaid’s fin, the red one was on a pirates dagger, the smooth oval with a crack was a cursed stone that shattered itself. Before I know it my mind is full of magic and my hands full of dreams. Katharine willingly takes some off my hand when she sees they’re falling out. We amble along.
“You really will follow up on your dance dream right?”
Katharine just told us all this morning that she plans to quit her advertising job and take up dancing again. She wants a certificate in it to set up her own school eventually. All that was stopping her all this while was the imagined absurdity of dance as a career for the daughter of a business family.
“I think so. I just have to work around Ma.”
“Okay. I’m really happy you’re thinking this way.”
I suddenly remember that some months ago I’d written a really bad poem for Kat.

Dancing girl
Puts on her shoes
Gliding she tango’s
A step or two

Throws away her cares
Puts down her lists
Wildly she sashays
Through ensnaring mists.

Forgotten legacies
No other dream
She’s where she wants
In her dancing cleats.

What was written in hope seems a possibility now.
We wander back to our spots in the sun and pounce on the other two. Kat hands my stones back and i dump them in my Elmo bag as it begins to rain.

picture courtesy: www.flickr.com

Bludgeoned

India's diary - common entry:

I'm fed up with myself for:

1. writing crap

2. not finishing things

3. not writing

4. being a fat pig

5. letting good ideas go to waste

6. not having guts

7. not even trying to tilt windmills

Michael Parkes is one of India's favourite artists. This pic is called Gargoyles. Check out his other work.

To Be Or Not To Be... and Why To Be?

I found a letter India wrote to Piper where she felt she had cracked the reason for existence.

Piper never responded so she obviously was not equally moved by the glorious answer. Or more likeli she was too busy actually living life to be carried away by theories on living.

"What were the use of my creation if I were entirely contained here?" – Catherine, Wuthering Heights.

So where else can people be? Could a part of me be in a rock? Is this the crux of love – that infact not whole but a part of us is given out somewhere else and till we find it there shall be no rest and till we find it we cannot hope to do what we were meant, made and capable of doing.

So then is it an inherent need to love ourselves that makes us love another person?

And why is it important that we start out incomplete?
Is it after all just one of the most basic entertainment devices to God.. to watch us all scurrying around on our individual quests?
Or) e.g. the sea as a whole is incomplete without the sun and clouds. If it were so that it was complete, then there would be no clouds and no rain and a 1000 other things would change and there would be no storms, no beauty, equations would be constant and without permutations/combinations there can be no maximization or certainty.
And if all things were complete so that they are all content in their own space – there would be no beauty. It is in the nature of things to mate to create beauty. Yellow gold, mud and flowers, babies, etc. Mud would just be mud. It is also in the nature of things to want to give and share its best.
And if all things were complete so that they are all content in their own space – there would be no beauty. It is in the nature of things to mate to create beauty. Yellow gold, mud and flowers, babies, etc. Mud would just be mud. It is also in the nature of things to want to give and share its best.
And so the object of life is beauty and the purpose of life is creation.

Sky and Titania were quite taken with this theory. They even understood how it was worked out. Just the steps to the conclusion were enough to excite India. If something can be logically worked out, it simply must be true after all. Poirot rules.

A quote from Umberto Eco - just to set off the above - "i have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma, made terrible by our own mad attempt to analyze it as though it had an underlying truth."

Go Figure.

I really like this cover as opposed to the design we're seeing on our bookshelves.

It's dark and not childish like the sketches we're seeing. It's got this doom-ish feeling to it and it's alluring. What is the medallion? The design isn't anything that's been mentioned before.

Harry Potter and the Unbreakable Pact

The wand arm reach of the boy from Surrey really came home to me when traveling by the BST or BEST (I never quite got that). The gentleman next to me stared right into my pages and without a moment’s hesitation asked me if this was the last book.
Now so many people ask me if I stood in lines and trampled people to get the book that I realized I am a fan.
My newly discovered reputation is suffering since I have to claim that I do not own The Deathly Hallows. Nein. Nyet. No. Fortunately for me my affairs of the heart have been singularly untouched by hype.

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

It’s so lovely to unexpectedly find someone who grabs your attention and entangles you without you even drawing breath. Much before Harry got famous, in early 1997, Mrs. H found this book somewhere and got him home. We were moving house then and the beginning was as secret as I could have wished. I was supposed to help carry dusty cartons and carefully unveil pieces from their bubble wrap. But instead I thought I’d read one story of this new book. (I thought they were short stories of magic with the same characters) (Kind of like Pink Whistle). But of course it was so much more. Before I knew it, I was knee deep in still-packed cartons and reading in secret. A pile of boxes gave me cover as I read on and on. My heart beat didn’t drop once. If not the story then Mrs. H suddenly appearing gave enough impetus to push me into this relationship.
It is my most atmospheric start.

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

No… I have not made a mistake. It’s just that our relationship jumped a stage. I read this part next and this is probably the only time in a relationship that I jumped a base. (Snigger. My parallels are so amateur that I’m entertained). Emotionally I like intensity before I like softness and Harry really entrapped me with this one. It had it all – anger, loss, hurt, coming into own, passion and happiness. With this one I knew that it would last.

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

This was the comfort zone of the psychological relationship chart. We’d hit the high notes of intimacy, passion and comfort and now the former two were on a down swing. I enjoyed the company but wasn’t dazzled by the depths. This is when relatives and friends help a relationship - when their words help cement things. Mars and Paris really loved The Chamber of Secrets. Paris goes far enough to say it’s her favourite. Hmm. I went back and read it. For me this book was a work of ‘not enough of the good stuff’. I love the Parselmouth angle and it wasn’t used enough. I love the main plot with the diary and it wasn’t used enough. I was filled but not content. Then I read it again and enjoyed the delicacy. The economy of revealing enough and leaving you wanting. I was no longer in the comfort zone rather raring for more. Who would have thought prosaic Mars and woman of few words Paris could put a zing in for me?!

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

Then there was this one. The fourth installment is my favourite. No question. I chewed my lip dry. I was left stunned. I laughed. I marveled at the intricacies. I hated it having to end. And I was so respectful of the forethought that this book revealed. Everything tied up and made sense. It was like being given the key to attraction. Like someone telling you… these are the reasons you love me… and finding that even knowing the reasons doesn’t lessen it. But good things can’t last and the next one proved it.

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

If I could wipe out the memory of this one I would. I felt that we had different motivations and were growing apart. Harry had become embroiled in his quest for silver screen fame. I wanted him to stick to his roots. This period in our ten years gave us nothing. No joy, no highs, a litany of let downs and the death of what was to me one of the most hopeful aspects of our relationship. Even THE REVELATION by Dumbledore did nothing to save it.

Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

I didn’t wait for him this time. I was curious but felt detached. We’d grown apart and I figured if he had anything to say to me anymore I’d hear it. I feel little pitter patters in my central towards the left region when I think of how sweetly he returned to himself. He threw off the shackles of stardom and seemed to have realized that to win his girl back he’d have to woo her. A little wickedness, a little humour, a lot of kissing and the undercurrent of the earlier darkness. To me this book is more “return of the Kid” than about Snape and his bezoar remedies.

Which leaves me with: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
There was a tension inside me and a tightly leashed excitement. This was our moment, our grand finale and I’ve always liked to know how things are going to be. I was too scared to leap in and it matters that we go raging. I’m sure lovers, writers, film critics, venture capitalists, entrepreneurs, politicians, sportspersons and readers around the world will agree with me - There is nothing worse than a bad ending.
I heave a sigh of relief and wait in anticipation for this weekend. I mean to give us uninterrupted time.

picture courtesy: http://www.flickr.com/

Abyssinian Maid

My thoughts mid-air are never confessional and my thoughts anywhere are never short. I have no clue why they come or where from. I don't think they are thoughts. I saw these things. Or i would like to. Some visions are really difficult to pen. They disappear as lightly as the steal in.

The blue and silver propeller from my window looked like a fantastical beast. Even this high up the sun was soft and light as it flowed through the mist-like clouds draped over the whirring creature.
A mountain of white came up and the beast charged in. The enemy scattered and clung on. The beast roared out victorious. But on the gleaming wing from the smoky white an iguana leaped like a feather and solidified nonchalantly before my very eyes.
It pulsed crudely gloating like filth that has subjugated beauty.

-----

The tall man worked day and night, through dreams and light, while eating and running and talking and crawling on knees through mud and sweating in forges, with not a moments rest, he mixed and measured, went back through time to Salem, returned with ingredients, alloyed and experimented, lit fires and burnt his creation, threw curved steel and shine pieces away and started anew.
The man woke with a jolt from his dream. Phaeton had whispered to him the lost method. He was just in time. That day the sun didn’t creep up on him but blazed into the sky in a single moment. The man was ready with his instruments. He mixed the Salem blood with water and it turned from the red of heat to obsidian. The angry sun sizzled as the man splintered his carbon hard shiners and mixed them in the black blood. The mixture fumed. The sun tried to stop its light but Phaeton would not pull his carriage back. So it stayed there and glowered. The man shut his eyes and his passion burned through till he had a liquid heat pouring out of his heart. The man collected the flow careful not to leave a drop behind. He looked wonderingly at the gold liquid. Outside of his body it didn’t lose heat but burnt hotter and hotter as it met the black mixture that was a result of the gold’s existence.
The man took his bubbling potion and poured it in to the hearth. Strangely it cooled and simmered waiting for the man’s touch. He let it simmer then poured it into the mold. With a rush the essence took on its body. The man left it for a moment and went outside. He looked at the sun and was pleased to see it burn brighter. A yellow ray lashed out to finish him but he leaped aside and chuckled.
He took his instrument out of the mold and hammered at it. Then with a flourish he threw it and caught it. Threw it and caught it. He laughed with sheer pleasure. He plunged it in vats of its ingredients to cool and harden and cool till it was no color and seemed to darken and glint all at once.
The man took out a scabbard and cloaked his life’s work. He picked up a pack and started out. He walked for days. His brown skin glistened and his long legs ate the earth. He stopped neither for food nor water.
Then he climbed atop a mountain and the tall man removed his weapon and held it comfortably in his palm, fingers clasping its hard made beauty. With his caress it glinted just once and then waited patiently for the final moment. The man held, swung his arm back and with a flick of his wrist cast it away. It flew and soared and cut the wind. The man saw it leave and become a speck taking a circuitous path till it was engulfed by the flaming sun.
He waited. One second. And another. Moments passed. He kept looking. His amber eyes blazed as they caught a flicker. And it came flying back having touched the sun, saluted it, taunted it… his diamond hard, obsidian black, witch blood, eternal water boomerang came flying back straight to his hand. Cold as the moment it left. The tall man laughed and fell to his knees before the sun. Phaeton pulled away and the sun disappeared as quickly as it had come.

Section II: Who Said to Whom

There are times when you just want to go back to simpler days; when the biggest challenge was evading your chemistry teacher’s eye in case she asked a question.
There are times when you walk around Cesspool with squelching dirt oozing in and out of your toe nails and wind tangling your ready-for-office hair and you leave your empty house only to go back in the evening. On such days you might be reading a biography and you think – what would mine read?
And thump. That was a metaphorical pole.
Most biographies tell one entire episode of a person’s life. It begins, it goes somewhere and it ends. They have this thing called an ending.
Biographers are smart creatures – they pick aspects of a life that have a story curve, an arc that goes somewhere.
I am the master of beginnings. The characters populating my tale are winsome, arrogant, loving, bitter, straight, hard, restless, crushing, baffling, intimidating, dull, enigmatic, schizophrenic, suffering, cheerful, alone, lonely, lost, hopeful, cynical, pretending to be cynical, fake, dreaming, irish, apart, focused, content, forgiving, resentful, scared, bored, sad, free, ahead of their time, behind, hurt, strong, busy, living. My story is not mine without them but it goes nowhere even with them. They have their own arc to build. I have the nails and hammer but don't seem to have the wood. I have the dialogues but not the screenplay.
So I hug the pole and think of the lines I’ll never forget. Some of those lines were stories that I thought would end and some are stories that can never end.
And there’s just a little twinge while thinking of both.

You know I love you right? I love you. I always have and I always will.
- boy to girl

What will I do without you?
- brother to sister

is there a manual that comes with you?
- guy to girl

You’re a mountain you know. Only it’s lost in mist.
- friend to friend

Will you marry me?
- man to girl.

Maasi! chiya.
- niece to aunt

The Mighty Heart

Fed Ex won the Wimbledon in a too-close-for-comfort match equaling Borg’s 5 straight strawberries with crème trophies.
Ferrari and Kimi are racing again.
I’m a little like Veronica Lodge – I like my winners. But if truth be told I like people who like winning more. There’s something so honest about a man who wants to win- Like a woman who shamelessly enjoys compliments or a child who likes getting dirty.
I got up early one morning (only because I had to) and took Cykie for a walk (only because I had to). I’m a strong girl. (I hate how that makes me sound like the Hulk’s sister). But I am and I took our St. Bernard size Alsatian for a walk. Maybe with my limbs still slack and warm this wasn’t the brightest idea. I think researchers should spend valuable time studying the wake up time of a 19 year old vs. that of an 8*7 year old dog.
Anyway, so there we go – down hill and up dale. Big dog pulling sleepy mistress. Tug.
Cykie don’t.
Gambol. Gambol. Come race me.
Sigh. I hate good cheer in the mornings even from a too-big-to-be-so-silly dog.
He turns back on his lead and grins. Then he goes around me wrapping me in his chain so I’ll trip. Ha ha. He thinks it’s funny. I don’t.
Whack.
Don’t you give me that melted brown look. You just tried to kill me. Okay so you didn’t mean to but stupidity is no excuse in a criminal court. (Is it Aldair?)
He slumps along now. Just trying to make me feel bad. I’m not sure if he’s a dog or a man. I’ll show him. I jauntily ignore him. I’m a woman.
He’s a dog. He doesn’t sulk too long. Gambol Gambol.
At this time in the morning I wish he was a man.
The wind is really blowing. Fresh and cool and I’m coming awake. Against my will, I’m caught up in his excitement. Fine, let’s run. (Besides it’s downhill for a stretch).
So we run, run, wind in our hair and fur, faster and faster on our 2 feet and four paws, lungs filling and tongue flapping (all mine and his respectively). When I come to a grinding halt. Too late. Ah crap.
The momentum helps the big mutt. Before I can even shout a command ( I like to believe it would have stopped him), he has yanked himself off and is lion-like prancing straight at 4 dogs who had the audacity to bark at him while he was on a lead.
Not anymore. But they weigh the odds. Their four to his one. He doesn’t think at all. I can almost see the gleeful burst in his pea sized brain – Fight. Game. Fun.
It’s too early in the morning for such frenetic energy bursting through my heart I think. Fear. Oh god. Mars is too far away at home. I wouldn’t be able to get him in time.
So I do the only thing I can. I scream.
Cykie no. Stop. Come back.
It’s all clogging my heart and throat. The four dogs round on him. Oh god, my beauty. Snarling dogs are truly scary. Scarier than lions and tigers who have the good sense to stick to jungles.
Uhh… wait a second… one dog has run off. (I wasn’t completely useless; I helped my team by picking up a rock and hurling it) But the alpha male didn’t need help. He had one villain pinned under his front paw while he snarled and bit the other two. Then he released the first one and mauled the next. It was like watching a lion on National Geographic. Stunningly beautiful in motion. All the more so with the blood lust upon him. Just the desire to win and fight. Then he posed over the dogs like Schumi on the top step of the podium. Pure pleasure and energy at the win.
The larger army turned and ran. My hero came back. He has the brains to looks contrite.
He’s intact and I’m too impressed to be angry.
I don’t know about the rest of mankind but I’m definitely descended from a caveman and his clubbed on the head mate.

picture courtesy: http://www.flickr.com/

p.s. - can anyone (read Mars, Titania, Salvatore) supply me with a running pic of Cykie?

How About That?

A week ago the blue moon came calling. Sky and I got in touch with our silly, faith-is-everything portions and got prepared for a lot of wishing.

"Ack.. we don’t have white. "

Sky rummages, "No white?"
No white.
Pink ?
check
Green ?
check
Yellow ?
check
Red ?
check
Blue ?
check
Sky is amused, "you have enough colored candles to start a shop...But no white?"
I'm forlorn, "No white." I grin suddenly at the irony... white stands for completeness.

I logic-ify with my basic science and think to myself... all colors together make white anyway.
Satisfied with that bit of sense, i turn back to darken the room and cast an eye out. Damn Cesspool. No chance of actually seeing the moon. We espy the glow and are satisfied. We begin lighting our colored candles minus the white.
“wait wait… should we be sky clad do you think, for most effect?” I anxiously ask.
Sky looks perplexed.
“umm… naked I mean.. I read it on this site. It helps to have no barriers and stuff.”
Sky looks at me. Lopsided smile appears. I suddenly realize that I’m asking a girl who’s rather comfortable in her skin to shed her clothes. The same does not apply to me. I’m the girl who leaps from the dressing room straight to the swimming pool if she can.
I clear my throat, “maybe not. We’ll do just fine with the candles.”
So the little ceremony starts. The candles all lit, we sit and wish. Yellow for our families, pink for love, red for career, green for prosperity and blue for health.
You can wish on the blue moon and you get your wishes. Not a bad bargain once in three years I’m thinking. I shake my head to concentrate on my wishes. My earnestness seems to run out faster. I peek at Sky. She’s still transported fish eyed on her thoughts. (Only those who know Sky can truly appreciate that one).
I shut my eyes tight and re-run on my wishes. I peek again. Still fish eyed.
Hmm… time to take matters into my own hands.
I catch hold of the yellow candle and I say, “So do you want to make some kind of ritual? The powers that be like some formality even if you make it up.”
The fish eye opens completely and focuses on me. We clasp the yellow candle and wish for every family person we can think of… please give Mr. and Mrs. H a happy old age free of the cares they’ve had, please give Sky’s dad better health and mother rest, please give Piper and Philip independence; Myrine true happiness; let Titania find happiness outside of work too; let Mars and Paris have everything they ever want, Paris’ mother and sisters, Sky’s cousins, aunt and uncles, any blood that mattered and since there was no candle colour for friends, we wished for Harry and Sytar and Gaia and Alanis and Katharine and Salvatore and Aldair and Quinn and Smith and well everyone.

Then the blue for health – badima’s diabetes and Elvis’ back and Leo Tio’s general insomnia.
On the red we wished for Sky’s film and for me to have some focus.
The green for our mental and physical and worldly prosperity.

And then the pink. We wished for love. As an Elvis song puts it:

Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone,

Without a dream in my heart,

Without a love of my own,

Blue moon, you knew just what I was there for,

You heard me saying a prayer for,

Someone I could care for.

And then we sat in the glow of the candles and chatted and remembered and sang songs and said passages from Wuthering Heights and wished everyone was there and then we said enough coz there are only so many wishes the moon can answer even on a good night.

Just 3 days later Sky got engaged out of the blue.

picture courtesy: http://www.flickr.com/

Menage Trois

There are some threesomes you should be a part of.
You...

... your friend and a coffee table
... your bed and a book
... your husband and a song
... pattering rain and hot tea
... your sister and a skirt (preferably hers)

Post comments, I have to add one more to stop the cross dressing confessions in their tracks.
More than i needed to know.

...your brother and a bike/toolkit/ superman comic

Picture Courtesy: www.istockphoto.com

Smoke in Her Eyes

Sky and Harry just saw a film about a 65 year old man and a 35 year old woman falling in love. The film’s light and doesn’t make bones about the concept. It’s quite simply a love story about a cantankerous old man and a plain speaking woman. Sky particularly was convinced with the line that the female protagonist speaks – that she can’t help it if men are taking 65 years to match her mentally and in maturity. Heh.
Harry has forever said that with the way they are India and she can only expect an old man. India is very careful about saying older and not old.
Well in honour of that sentiment, here’s a poem that she wrote quite a while ago. There are some water stains on the paper so I’m missing some lines in the middle but you’ll get the idea.

I met a man in a glade once,
He smelt old like the oldest tree and looked beaten like the weathered breeze,
I longed to touch his spare, lived face and feel his enough hands on me.
But I was young and he was not
And all that met were our eyes.

The wood smoke cleared as he looked at me,
My breath caught fire instead.
And still he moved and I stood still,
Uncaring to break the spell.

(Water marks… something about how age knows things youth fears. How age is willing to take risks and live while youth is playing safe.) (then…

But I was gaunt and he was full
And all that met were our eyes.

Picture courtesy: www.flickr.com

Untitled

I really wanted to find the perfect pic for this poem of India's. I couldn't. But it feels incomplete without a visual and i'm no artist so here's one courtesy http://www.flickr.com/.

The listener gasps
Wonder shines
My trials are dragons
Through the shards of time.

A fluttering cloth could well
Be a sphinx
And that purple bolt
A never ending bridge.

The lustful animal
Becomes a man
My passion is his blood
As he stalks the land.

The waters still
As wings take air
Her reflection catches
In Juno’s snare.

My words are all colours
The artists unpaid
This life not charmed
Just a storyteller’s lay.

Maudlin Madam

Just to look at on a slow day

Things that are depressing India today:

1. She hasn’t had a conversation with a man- ever. Boys don't count.
2. Her job is a dead end.
3. Men don’t run anymore. They aren't physically fit. They’ve become too damn dainty. I mean isn't physical prowess over the weaker sex supposed to be their one big advantage?! what kind of dumbf*&ks give that up? I could out walk and out run most. and the civilized notion of a gym is just as bad. Why won't they sweat? sigh. a la daniel craig. different kind of sigh.

picture courtesy: http://www.flickr.com/

I Believe You Asked For It

Since i'm not India, even with the clues in the comments, I really couldn't say who the anon is to be able to find words on him/her among the Stolen Papers.

I have anonymous claiming to be a superhero who can’t fly. Well… I got to tell you - to qualify for your cape and pecs, you have to have faced your own weaknesses first.
Superman knows that his weaknesses are Kryptonite and mind manipulation. Batman triumphs over the black winged ones very artistically in a gloomy cave. Wolverine decides to put his past behind him and live in the present.
So unless you’ve met, fought and conquered your demons, I’m afraid you’re just a man, who, like other men - can’t fly. But if you’ve looked at yourself long and deep and seen that your strength is your weakness and vice a versa, then get ready to strap on your flyer gear.

First Step: A Horse

Paris mentioned her wishlist recently:
1. Gold plated bangles that she’d espied in a store called Vanilla.
2. a red red top
3. a phone

She got lucky. Mars gifted her the Vanilla bangles for their third month wedding anniversary. (Yep… the two got hitched in a big fat Indian wedding this February).
She went to her favorite store and found a red top. Not the shade from her mind but close.
And I think buying makes her happy anyway. She acts like a woman with focus and a mission. Like someone who found love and knows what to do with it.
Paris has dismissed her desire for a phone but if anyone is in the mood to spoil her. Here’s an option.
India was there too. She danced in the store. A little slide, some shuffle, glide and turn. They were playing Elvis and it was really tough to resist. Paris reveals that her ‘can’t-help-but-dance’ song is Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie. She does the boogie before leaving for work. Incredible.
When they were in college, India used to do this 'demented impression' for Paris when she needed a laugh. I think India's planning on using the image of Paris dancing to Hips Don't lie in the privacy of her room as her own 'i need a smile' moment.
Mars should re-invent the Paris chart that used to be in his room. Add Shakira baby to it.
Mars’ ‘can’t-help-but-croon’ song is ‘Amore’. He’s fun when he’s buzzed. Well… funny anyway.
India’s wishlist:
1. A store like Vanilla with bangles and snow globes, and Michael Parkes' prints in it.
2. Perfect jeans in a magic wardrobe
3. A trip

Careful use of the English language can really rake in wishes at innumerable for the price of three.

Picture courtesy: www.flickr.com

Mute

I’ve lost the dreams and lost the worlds,
So much a part of me,
I’ve fashioned wires in hopeful circles
Like webs to catch a floating stream.

But the dazzling colours, the eagles and storms,
The swimming peacocks, blue roses and kisses,
Have all gone away from me.
Xanadu’s father seems my only hope,
Beckoning me to the place,
But everyday I face obsidian nights
Drunk on sleep and waiting for solace.

---- For anyone interested in making themselves a dreamcatcher,a red indian tradition to catch hold of sweet dreams and ward off the bad ones, visit:
http://www.turtlefeathers.com/tutorial/dream-catcher/index.html
India personally likes her dreams to come without censorship.

The Secret

The old woman sat with her knotted hands... moving with the grace of age... as she worked out a tale in her sandpaper voice and her eyes always ablaze.
Why is she old... and never dead? They whisper among themselves.. Is she a witch or a wise old crone... some things u can never tell.

The child wandered in, sat before her… and in certain tones with fearsome smile
demanded an answer instead.
The old woman started.
Looked at eyes deep in fire... red & blue,
golden & smoke…
and breathed a hope… Ask me the right question, she said.
The child wondered... almost ordered again... for many were swayed by the quiet voice & the sure eyes…
but here was water... and the reflection deeper than any he had met.

Neither wise nor witch you be... but old is old with many a memory in cold that I could ask from ye…
but your magic is deeper than any odd remembrance... it is life and heart and soul...
so I ask a tale, yes still a tale... both long and short, lonely and bold...with veins and wine, hurt and shine, clasping hands bereft...
Old woman tell the story of your eyes this day.

Who?

I'm no one in this room...
just the blue smoke.