School work

In school, there are two kinds of children. The ones who have figured out their need for attention and will study and do good by the books, just to keep everyone happy with them. Lets call them the A category. And others who would bunk school at whim and do whatever they feel like. Ride a bike, learn a coding language, read a book, write a poem, chat all day, talk all day, make stuff or do nothing, just lie around and look at the clouds. The B category.

As far as experience serves memory, the A kids end up getting amazing jobs, marrying early and having the true blue family life. Or in the modern world, giving them up, to do what they really love and start again from scratch.

The B kids however, know what makes them happy from the very beginning, and know that it is alright if you break a few rules. It is ok if people don't get you and you're alone. That goes away. School-work and their undying hatred for repetitive, seemingly useless tasks, never does. And that is what drives them. To remember what makes them happy. They get real jobs, have real careers and make the real difference in the world around us when they grow up because they do what they love and do it well. They are what the "real world" is made up of. And that is heartening.

Empty Reading

Back to the ocean, face to a shiny car window that reflected a beautifully distorted sunset, I sat and thought, that day. There was a lot on my mind and I opened a book a friend was carrying, to sift through randomly. It doesn't help to read when you are thinking too much, because here is how it went:

Book: Next thing we did was t'call in ten of the surviving subjects to the lab and check them all over again. Did brain scans, switched over cognitive systems t'see that the junctions were working right.
Me: My bones are weak. I cant run a hundred meters without feeling like my insides are crying out in pain. I am losing weight. I should quit.

Book: Conducted detailed interviews, asked them whether they had any physical disorders, any auditory or visual hallucinations.
Me: It has been a long time since I gave an interview. I should find some work now. Go meet people. I'm too lazy.

Book: But none of them had any problems t'speak of. All were healthy and kept up a perfectly unremarkable career of shuffling jobs.
Me: I shuffle jobs. I wonder when I will find something worth sticking to. Something that does not run out of charm every few months. Something that I can't ever figure out and remains interesting forever.

Book: We could only conclude that the ones who died had had some a priori glitch in their brain that rendered them unsuitable for shuffling.
Me: This is so beautiful. Defining shuffling jobs as a legitimate career. Giving worth to the choice of freedom to perform what you want to and not become a rotting cog in a laaaaaarge wheel. I know a lot of people with that priori glitch. They call it security. I call it bullshit. I shuffle jobs. Good.

Book: We didn't have any idea what that glitch might be. That was something for further investigation, something t'be solved before attemptin' a second round of shuffling actualization.
Me: Wait. What? I don't get this.

Note to self - Communication

In this world, we are not separated from people by distance. We are separated by the amount of effort it takes to make contact. A phone call, a message, an e-mail, a rickshaw ride to go meet them. I feel far from the people who are closer to me in distance, and closer to those who are far away.

Where I live, the closer distances are harder to get to. Because it takes lesser effort and so, you believe you can do it at your convenience. I don't visit my aunt, who lives a little more than walking distance away from home, as often as I meet friends who live a comfortable rickshaw ride away, because rickshaw doesn't cover the short distances.

Phone calls do, but they only work as well as meeting in person, if you are far away. If you can use them as a viable, rationally explained alternative to meeting people in person. If you cannot travel to them, practically, as often as you call them. Only in this scenario do phone calls work. Only then do they matter, really. They don't work if you are close, and want to use them only to maintain contact. People would much rather see you in person than hear your voice over the line, from a short distance away.

There are some who get this and some who don't. Often those who don't will matter the most to you. And the ones who do will be just like you, not bothering about what mode you choose to keep in touch with. For those who don't, heartfelt missing works. A very very heartfelt and genuine message/e-mail/phone call usually sets things in order. The little magic of saying what you really feel works wonders and mends the gap. And laughter. Make them laugh. Put it on your weekly agenda, and put smiles on those faces.

It all comes down to the effort. Let the little unsettling feeling with someone's face on it burn bit by bit till you cant handle it anymore, and when that happens, put it all together, make that little effort and touch. Make contact. Set things in order. You know it feels good.

On Parting

Parting is sweet

It guarantees you meet

All over again

And there is an "again"

And a "nothing to rhyme"

And a "till another time"

There is a greet

And a rising heartbeat

Sitting at its feet

There is more to say

On a brand new day

Something of a "hold sway"

There is always a song

And a favourite line

And that which could be

A "be mine"

Then there's the unfolding

Of the old and moulding

After much withholding

There is some charm-ing

And some more disarming

Till it gets alarming

And the doors lock down

So that after lackluster

Right beyond mundane

Just another "same old" away

There is another parting

Starting

To guarantee you meet

All over again

(18th September 2012)

To Mother, With Love

Its been a while since you and me

Its been a while since being free

From here inside me I can see

That I am you and you are me

The more I know me, the closer you are

Near or far, doors shut or ajar

Forever may seem like a bit too far

So the more I know me, the closer you are

At the expense of sanity

I proceed infinitely

To where I am you and you are me

To where the world's a mockery

And the more I know me, the closer you are

Bright, dark, however bizzare

Forever may seem like a bit too far

But the more I know me, the closer you are..

(21st March 2012)

Baatuni Lamha

Aaj ek lamha mila
Bhag daud mein se
Poochha tu kaun hai
Har ek aur mein se

Teri awaaz kaunsi hai
Saare shor mein se
Koi chaah nikli hai
Dil-e-kamzor mein se?

Koi jawaab na aaya
Fikr-o-ghaur mein se

Shayad meri hasti
Har ek aur si hi hai
Shayad meri awaaz
Ab ek shor si hi hai
Par lamhe ki taqdeer bhi toh
Bhag daud ki hi hai

Aaj ek lamha mila
Bhag daud mein se......

(12th November 2011)

This is a blog post

So, this one’s about losing touch. Losing touch of time. Losing touch of space. Losing touch of everything in between.

It has been an awful long time since I last wrote, so I have probably lost touch with how to write. Or the idea of an audience, a destination for my thoughts. This one’s about losing touch with my audience.

It has been a long time since I took stock of my roots. A long time since I looked back to where I have come from. This one’s about losing touch of my roots.

A quaint little evening, with a faint smell of happiness in the air, an imminent festivity and not so imminent chill of autumn. A silence that is on the surface, with the noise of restlessness inside, every pair of eyes I look into. This one’s about that silence on the surface.

A city of rotten dreams, dreams of fancy cars shriveled into a rickshaw seat, dreams of 70 mm shrunk into an idiot box, dreams of palaces stinking next to the gutter on the footpath, dreams of happiness pretending to exist in the eyes of unwanted offspring. The city of dreams. Stale dreams, stinking dreams, shriveled and shrunk dreams. This one’s about this city and dreams.

The hurry that knocks you off your feet. The rhythm that’s beating in your head, propelling you forward without letting you wait to take stock. The breakneck speed that gives you no time to breathe. No time to hold onto those happy moments that made up of all your memories. Just because you got the time to hold onto them. No time to look back to your roots. No time to write. This one’s about the rush that makes you lose touch of time and space. And so, this one’s about losing touch.

A tale untold..

Well, once I was a peice of cloth.

Too small to cover,

Too weak to protect,

Too tattered to shelter,

So they called me a rag.

There isnt much a rag can be

Apart from a useless part of an otherwise uself whole.

And so I was

Just a rag.

Till I met another rag.

Bigger and stronger

And yet not whole,

Caught in the wind,

Too in-the-flow

To let go.

We were both rags.

Both useless parts of separate useful wholes.

And they stitched us together

The stitchers.

Every stitch

They pierced us with,

Altered who we were

And created who we are.

The needle and thread

Sewed strong bonds

And yet we knew we were

Useless parts of separate useful wholes

Different in every way.

In texture and form

In the way light passed through

Our warp and weft

In the way we absorbed

Or let things glide over.

But we were together.

Bigger together than we were apart.

Slowly becoming

Strong enough

Big enough

And whole.

To them things were different.

To them,

The lookers on,

Together we looked lovely.

Beautiful in our contrast,

And complete.

They loved us,

Named a price,

And we were sold.

To wipe tears and bring smiles.

To bring cheer and look nice.

To just be there

Adorned, adored and awe inspiring.

For some odd reason,

They loved us

As we looked,

Together.

But they all wanted us

And so,

There was tugging

And pulling

Until it grew into a ruthless snatching

And we came undone.

By then we had forgotten how to be rags.

To be small and weak and tattered.

To be useless parts of separate useful wholes.

By then

We knew what

It felt to be loved.

But they gave away,

The stitches.

In the hustle.

And again we were,

Just rags.

As rags

We weathered.

We knew we were parts again.

Useless parts of... yes you know.

But not to them.

They still loved us,

For our form and texture,

For our color and weave.

For the way light passed through

our warp and weft.

For our loveliness,

And they each kept a part.

Apart.

When they pulled the threads away

They saw the holes

That had cut through us.

And overlooked.

You know,

They still thought we were beautiful.

But over time,

All they saw was

The loveliness fading,

The beauty gone.

They saw it reappear.

This thing,

About the way we looked.

And they knew what we were.

What they had made us.

It was then that they knew,

Apart, we would be just rags.

Smaller than before,

Weaker and more incomplete.

So they decided to sew us back together.

But there is this thing with sewing.

The undone cannot

Be redone as is.

As rags again,

We had to be trimmed a little,

Or the stitches would not be

As strong.

And so we were cut,

Made smaller.

Of another shape and size.

Different.

And stitched back together.

It was odd,

The way we looked,

Sewed back together.

Rough edges jutting out.

There was this thing,

That made us a lot less lovely,

Than before.

But yet again,

We became,

This whole that wasnt as whole

As the previous whole.

But was whole.

And that is who we are right now.

The story doesn't end

For none really does.

They all go on.

In a different time

And space.

All I know

Is though we were,

We are not,

Rags anymore.

Of Lies and Deception

I always wondered as a child why grown-ups had to lie so much. I particularly remember this one time at the bus stop with Mumma when she was telling someone an incident which was, let’s say, manipulated to sound more interesting. To me it sounded like a lie, the thing that could not be had from me, and I could not fathom why it was being used without a reason. Now that I am all grown up, I can’t say I don’t understand.

If memory serves me right, my initiation into lying came when I was asked to make excuses on behalf of my parents on the phone. Adults hardly realize what they are getting themselves into when they teach kids to lie, because once I understood the art of deception, my parents were my first victims.

Like in the 5^th grade for instance, I must have had at least 20 absences from school on account of suffering from diarrhea. A trip to the loo every half hour, 10 minutes in, sound of the flush, the fragrance of soap on my fingers (not to forget he sorry face) and everyone was fooled. When it got too frequent however, Mumma made me come out without flushing, and well, my cover was blown.

Goes to show that the deception can only work well if, firstly, you can systematically control the frequency of your lies and mix them with unabashed honesty once in a while (unabashed honesty to show that you aren’t someone who is afraid of being honest) and secondly, you alternate blatant lies with omission on a few occasions.

A year back I was severely reprimanded by a friend when I chose to make a very unnecessary confession to someone at the risk of (and eventually resulting in) a week’s loss on the self esteem front. He said this –“You girls and your so-and-so-has-a-right-to-know! I just don’t get it. If you know it will get you in trouble, don’t say it! Don’t lie, but just don’t say it!” In retrospect I have to admit he was right. On a very live-for-the-moment level, but wise nonetheless.

There are a lot of layers to lying, owing to the fact that with lies you always have lots of options. I know people who would always use the most bizarre and in-your-face lie, to make it amply clear to you that they are lying and in effect, leave you speechless. I know people who always use the most neatly crafted lies with all the loose ends tied up and leave you with the impression that their lives are right out of a Sommerset Maugham short. I also know, and find most interesting, the people whose lies are very real and extremely ridiculous and hard to believe. The only option left with you in their case is to rely on the wisdom that a lie so ridiculous, can only be the truth, because if they were lying why didn’t they come up with something better? But I am yet to know a person who doesn’t lie.

Imagination plays a key role. Great skill and creativity are required to make us come up with the most unique alternatives to the truth. And hence, they call it the “art” of deception. Look around and I’d say it is one of the most well practiced art forms in the world today. In terms of honesty, there are only two kinds of people here; ones who are good liars (deemed honest) and ones who aren’t (deemed dishonest). If someone asks you to be honest with them, what they really mean nowadays is, either lie and be good at it or don’t lie at all! Consequently, honesty is indeed the best policy (pun intended). But what bothers me into writing so much, is not that people lie. It is the fact that the way things are going, it has become extremely difficult to not lie, and yet coexist at peace with those around you. The facades we all carry are so important to us, that we would rather lie than admit that what people see, when they accidentally peek behind them, is actually true. Is plain honesty really that hard to achieve? And if it is, then shouldn’t lying be made a part of the moral science curriculum, to give every kid a head start?

One of those days...

They call it "one of those days" (though I'm not too sure who 'they' are, since nobody seems to have the guts to say anything important anymore) and I was faced with a sheer prototype of it today. I made my first big mistake at my new workplace, not out of negligence, but simply by following procedure. The most important of all jobs could not be completed because there were other little things to be taken care of all the time. The peons delayed every single request of mine by at least half an hour, due to the supposed power-struggle of new inducts (which I don't quite understand yet). Later, my only hope in a not so ordinary day,the happiness of shopping, and leaving the store in new clothes, was dampened by half hearted showers of a nervous young monsoon. And the worse was yet to come!

I should have known, when I crossed a traffic light that everybody was blatantly overlooking in plain view of half a dozen policemen who were busy chit-chatting, that I would be in for some traffic-trouble for the sole crime of cursing at them under my breath. The universe has its way of getting back at law abiding citizens with a dirty mouth doesn't it? So, when I saw all the two wheeler parking spaces of the busiest market in my little city over crowded, and decided to park in a not so crowded no parking area, lady luck laughed her guts out. When I returned after 2 hours of my own chit-chatting session, my vehicle had been towed away. The guy on the truck said he had been driving around with it for an hour, and had now dumped it in the control room.

Now the thing with control rooms is that when a towed vehicle reaches there, even the most seasoned officers in the art of corruption cannot let it go without completing official formalities (i.e. with a bribe and no other hassles). There were surely hassles abound because I being the utterly lost person I am did not even remember the registration number of my vehicle. I was blessed to have a smooth talker assisting me there or they would have taken my embarrassment at being stupid for guilt, and robbed me off every penny I had (and I did have a few too many).

The point I'm not so successfully making here is that 'they' also say every cloud has a silver lining (still not sure who this refers to), and mine was the fact that I did pay fine. I did not give money to be stowed away loosely in a thol's back pocket. I made a mistake and duly paid the authorities the amount of money I owed them for making it, and I'm glad. The last time my vehicle was towed away, my darling friends intervened and did not let me bask in the glory of being punished for breaking the law. They talked the eagerly lenient traffic policemen into letting me go without burning a hole in my pocket. What they didn't realize was not that I didn't try to haggle. But that I didn't WANT to.

It was one of those days where everything goes wrong for the sole purpose of making the good seem even better. Sometimes we don't realize the value of the good coming our way, and a few things have to be made absolutely horrible to make us see the brighter side. And when wee do see the brighter side, we learn a little more about ourselves, because it is only by personal preferences that you can tell what you like from what you don't. What I learnt is that I like to be punished when I am wrong. It is my way of settling the score. And the score should always be settled.

Creativity cries...

I am a blank space. Empty and unaltered. You and I have come a long way. We met in your empty notebooks, your freshly painted walls, your tabletops and paper napkins, your drawing books and A4 sheets, the white of your uniform, the margins of all the books you've ever read, the document on your computer screen, the empty message on your phone. And you have never let me down in my life and yours. I have been colored with your ideas and brought to life with your words. The least, I have been there to hold your gaze when your mind wandered the endlessly beautiful world of your imagination.

Being as humbled as I am by our solemn relationship, I have never placed any demands on you. But I can't lie still anymore. This time there is in me, more than the responsibility to make you think. This time you have to act.

For the sake of all the years I gave you the space to run your mind about, do this. Make me your canvas and give me a name. I want to show the world what you are really capable of. Color me with your ideas and bring me to life with your words once again. For I am all that you can call truly yours, and hold on to for all eternity.

Rainy Day

He yawned and looked out of the window, it was a dull gloomy morning. It was raining continuously for the past few days, so he had little time to go out and get some fresh air. He hated the touch of rain to his skin. But he longed for the wind to rustle his grey air. He longed for it to throw a stray leaf at him that made him blink. So he stretched, went out and sat by Sheila on the veranda. Away from the reach of the spatter. She looked at him with love in her ginger eyes. The look that still gave him shivers from head to toe. They had been together for the past eight years. Since she separated from her husband, to be precise. They had a loving coexistence. He couldn’t believe someone could love him as much as she did. It felt like she was a different person when she was with him.

He knew because he had followed her unnoticed to her shop a few times. He had seen her sit there alone, her head resting on her palm. Waiting for the next customer to walk in. He had seen her with her customers, trying to look cheery and make small talk, with an ounce of sadness still hanging in her eyes and making her look older than she really was. He had seen her checking the time over and over again for hours till it was finally time to close shop. But when she got back home, it seemed that all the love in her consumed her and became the person she was. She would smile, she would talk, she would be a different person altogether. She was wonderful.

He inched closer to her and nestled next to her chair. She rested her palm on his back. They both sat together and looked at the rain in silence. There used to be a time when she would talk her heart out to him, and he would just listen. He prided himself at being a good listener. And when she talked, he could feel the comfort it gave her to let out like that. She didn’t talk much nowadays. Just the occasional you-know-what-happened-todays. But he knew that didn’t matter. It was just age.

She had been married 36 years when her husband met a younger woman and decided to give his hormones a second chance. Their only child had long grown up and settled down in a far off land. He never visited her. Her man left her with her little boutique, money enough to buy a new house, and plenty of humiliation. That was all she had now, apart from her grey haired fellow.

She met him outside the grocery store one morning, a month after her divorce. He used to idle there in the morning when people came to get their daily supplies of milk. It was she who first came and talked to him that day. Within an hour they became friends. And then she started seeing him there every morning, without fail. A few weeks later he started visiting her at her place, and then eventually moved in with her. Time flew by, and they became the most important part of each other’s lives. He liked both owning her this way and being owned by her. They were inseparable. She might have grown old, but to him, she was just as beautiful now as she was when he first laid eyes on her.

It was almost lunch time. She was already inside, setting the table, while he took a few more minutes to laze by himself. He inhaled the air, spiced with the smell of her delicious chicken curry and felt pleased. She was an incredible cook. He would have lunch and then catch a few winks. There wasn’t much for him to do. After all, there’s hardly much to do for an old cat when it’s raining outside.

Inspired by Geetanjali Rao's Printed Rainbow

Curious

I see a little bee
Buzzing, on the flee
Who are you running from?
Are you scared of your mom?

I see a dog
Sniffing after a frog
Where will you take him?
Into the night dim?

I see a butterfly
Flutter, flutter by
What are you so happy about?
Silver lining to your cloud?

And then I see a mirror
And in it, my face
Nothing but a smirk on it
No sign, No trace

I stop asking these questions
They can’t answer me.
Why was I asking them?
Need a reason to be ME?

Yeah, Probably.

The Anatomy Of A Date

Stumble Upon

For all those who are already acquainted with Stumble, please read the last bit about the one website, others, read on.

Had those times when you were sitting in front of the computer, with an active internet connection, and all you did was stare at the screen, with no special purpose? Well even if you have better things to do with your time, it sure has been happening a lot to me in these past few days. So I discovered Stumble Upon. A website about websites. I read somewhere that if all the web pages in the world were standalone pages (like my sorry attempt at a personal page :P) that did not link to each other, we wouldn’t have what we fondly call the world wide web. The only reason that the web is so interesting is because one thing leads to another.
So, back to Stumble Upon, I found it while looking for some new add ons for Firefox, and landed upon a website where you can specify what topics interest you, and their toolbar button, when clicked, randomly takes you to one of the websites it thinks you would like. Now, the catch, you might not always like the website you are taken to, but you can tell the toolbar that you don’t like the website simply by clicking on the thumbs down button (any lame ass can remember that, when you don’t like something… thumbs down, when you reeeeally like something.. thumbs up!). That way the service tunes into your needs (?!) better.
The first time I clicked on Stumble, it took me to this website (probably because I had Art and Drawing as my preferences) that has empty space. A white page, which, as you move your mouse around, has ink blots appear over it. I won’t spoil the fun by writing all about it in one go. You should go see it for yourself, and try stuff out. It might sound simple, and not so interesting, but I spent 2 precious hours just trying to get a random pattern to look pretty. It didn’t, here’s what I got


But it was sure a lot of fun.
Just remember, the page won’t refresh after you’re done and want more. You will have to open it again in a new window.

Desperation

NOTE: This one's from a long time ago that I hadn't had the heart to publish till the dark clouds cleared. Now they have, by God's good grace, so here it is;

What do you do
when you want to get lost?
When no one around
feels your existence.
Do you just vanish
and leave them alone?
Or is it a moment
to tackle with persistence?
What do you do
When sweet love fails?
When darkness and doom
Solely prevail?
Do you pray to the lord?
For divine intervention?
Knowing he can’t change will and intention?
When love is the last
hope for your life,
But every caring hand
Cuts you like a knife
When the eyes that held
Happiness and warmth
Turn on to you
With vengeance and wrath
Do you submit yourself?
To the hands of decay
Or do you hold on
For that fateful day?
A day of your dreams
When love will return
A day like the day
When it all had begun
What do you do?
When you want to get lost
But a little hope keeps you
Alive at any cost?

Questions (A short story)

“Have you checked the batteries on that thing?” she said pointing at the torch in my hand. “I think it’s run long enough on those, you should change them. Which you most probably won’t so let’s say I should change them first thing tomorrow morning after I’m done dealing with that nincompoop doodhwaala, he thinks I wouldn’t make out how much water he’s mixing in the milk nowadays, as if it wasn’t enough already! I should ask him to start delivering water, maybe then…”
My dear wife had what they call the gift of the gab. She could ramble on about a hundred different things without drawing a single breath. She also has this habit of treating me like a five year old. I don’t know when she’ll realize I’m a grown man, and a perfectly capable one at that.
“When you stop behaving like one” she said with that know all look in her eyes. My scalp suddenly grew very itchy.
“I said I’ll stop treating you like a kid when you stop behaving like one. But my experience of the past 28 years tells me that’s not happening very soon”. Did she say 28? I thought it was over 30. Like it maters anyway. I don’t understand what women have with detail, 28 is as good as 30, just like tomato red and cherry red are both red, why not round it off or chrissake? “… till the chowkidar has to escort you back home?”
“What?” I said bewildered.
“When will you ever start listening to me when I’m saying something? I said leave before it’s too late and that dumb flashlight of yours runs out of batteries and..”
“Yeah yeah I got it from there. I’ll leave when I’m ready” So, Flashlight eh? Just because you have a son in law from the US of A to teach you fancy new words.
“What are you smirking about now?” she said gently jabbing her comb in my cheek.
“The prospect of a stroll by myself” I said and pulled the bedroom door shut behind me.

We had been going on these night walks together since our daughter moved away for college. And it had always been together, because she wanted it that way. She would still go if I wasn’t interested, but I never went alone. That just never happened. Maybe she never let it happen; maybe I didn’t recognize the opportunity. But this was my chance. In fact, she was the one to suggest I continue going on these walks by myself. And I gladly took her at her word.
The day the news came, I was just out of a meeting with my boss which I wouldn’t like to recount, not even for money, when the doctor, an old family friend of ours called me. My wife had slipped down the stairs and fractured her leg. “Oh my God! How is she? What happened? Why are you calling? Why didn’t she call?” I gasped, sweat streaming down my face.
“She’s okay Ashish, she was in pain so I put her to sleep. She’ll be alright, it’s only a hairline fracture don’t worry”
“Okay” I said, though I knew I wouldn’t be satisfied that everything was okay till I got a look at it myself.
Two weeks from that day I’m glad I got that news. I feel almost guilty at my relief. She must be in pain, and being the one who has nursed me out of various different illnesses over the years, she doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. But I can’t lie to myself, I’m all too happy about going on these walks by myself. After all, a man needs his space.

The road was perfectly well lit, and I was too tired to venture into the one of the lanes that cut away from it. Besides those lanes didn’t have sidewalks and I didn’t want to get my shoes dirty in the mud. “Ah! What a perfect morning! Mud stains on my new carpet! When will this man ever learn to wipe his shoes when he walks into the house? ” she’ll say in the morning.
What’s wrong with me? Now I’m thinking of what she’ll say in the morning? As if what she said all Sunday wasn’t enough to drive me out of my senses. ‘Stop thinking of her right now’ I said to myself. Just then, as if she heard my thoughts and pulled the plug on me, the street light went out. It was pitch dark, quite like my state of mind at the moment. I reached out for my torch and switched it on. It reluctantly gave a feeble glow and then went out, like my four year old granddaughter waking up from her sound sleep I so envy. I rattled it, but realized only too late that the batteries were down. “I told you so !” she’ll say with that triumphant look in her eyes when I get back home, her face beaming as if I brought her good news, “didn’t I?”. Yes, you did my love, and I didn’t listen to you. What do I do now? “Is that smoke? Are you stinking of cigarettes? Have you been smoking Ashish?” Smoking? What has that got to do with anything? Why was I thinking of this? Oh! Lighter! I have a lighter! I took it out of my pocket and lit it. The big yellow flame almost warmed my heart up. Now I just needed to find myself a spot to sit and wait till the lights were up again, I couldn’t take the five minute walk back home with a lighter in my hand. So I found a bench and sat down.
The sky was teeming with stars. Little twinkles of light that mocked me then, sitting in the dark. They were exceptionally bright that night, must have been a grid failure. I could hear the leaves rustling in the wind. The occasional flapping of a bat flying by. The wet monsoon wind caressing my face. I hadn’t been so close to nature, so unguarded, in many years. ‘This is life’ I sighed to myself. The wind was strong and noisy as it cut through the trees. It sounded like it was calling my name. Aaaashiiiiiishhhhhhh Aaaaaashhhhhhiiiishhhhhh
“Ashish! Have you gone completely deaf? I was dying with worry looking around for you and you’re sleeping on a bench! Don’t you have a shred of responsibility in you? Look at me when I’m talking to you! Why are you staring at my shoes? ASHISH! Are you drunk? What’s the matter with you? Say Something! ”.
“Your leg"
“My leg what? Haven’t you seen it before?”
“Where’s your plaster?”
There was shock in her eyes, quickly replaced by something else. I think it was the first time I saw that look on her face. I couldn’t quite make out what it was. Disappointment? Guilt? Wait a minute, I think there was some self righteousness there. “What is it? What happened?” I egged her on. She held my gaze with her hazel eyes for a long time, as if trying to say everything without having to utter a single word. After what seemed like an eternity I heard her say “I thought, a man needs his space. Doesn’t he?”
One little thing I forgot to tell you about her. She also likes to end most sentences with a question and leave you wondering.

Garf!!

Watever!

This one's hillarious!! Just pay heed to the way the kid turns her eyes!! awesome... and how she stamps the sketch pens down to be able to do it better! soo funny!!

Vanity

Every time I look at you
My eyes go wide
You are beauty incomparable
You are perfection defined

Wish I could feel the pain in your heart
Kill the shadow in your eyes
You are beauty incomparable
You are perfection defined

I want to be with you all day
See you cruise through your life
You are beauty incomparable
You are perfection defined

We are both just the same
Save this mammoth divide
You are beauty incomparable
You are perfection defined

Stuck here in love with you
On the mirror's dark side
I am just your reflection
You are flesh bone and hide

Every time I look at you
My eyes go wide
You are beauty incomparable
You are perfection defined