Thursday, November 24, 2005


Under the blue top, under a thick envelope of clouds (dark or sparse, based on nature's moods), under a sodden roof of a three storey building, under the ceiling (and a house on top), under a fake kashmiri shawl, under the spell of sleep is a world wrapped inside a tiny bubble that dawns at night and ends at dawn. An inspired painting, a plain paper under a wet watercolor, a plain white shirt washed with a bright red kurta - a heavily inspired canvas that you try to make sense of. A collection of impressions, voices and wishes zig zagging into a motion picture suspending disbelief on a dicey peg. Here now, gone the next instant. Good morning. Welcome to the real world.

The alarm is the death knoll, rings and wrings the life out of the bubble everyday. Well almost everyday. The past few days, the voice has been miffed. It's probably the winter I tell myself as I wake up in disbelief and watch the note pasted on my face (Yes m'lord. I am the narcissist who has his own image on his mobile screen). Last night is a blur. I remember walking on hundred feet road at one, through a huge pall of fog barely seeing the auto in the corner, and the yawning driver inside. The road and the fog take me miles away in space and time to a remote corner in Rajasthan, to an yellow clock tower and a arc of a road under it, that as you march on midnights in early march has a distinctive smell of some flower (that you can't place) merging with the smell of wet grass and a lone burning beedi tip under a old rajasthani shawl.

Or was it last night? Doesn't make a difference now. The days and nights seem to have blurred in the last few months, merged into a flat black screen and a language with an altered alphabet. So goes the moment old rhyme,

and so it goes
Poetry meets reason
in the world of rational rose

When actors appear in UML diagrams, play is a button in the media player and metaphors are not cool anymore.

Forget it. Let's talk about something else. You wouldn't believe how much I have written in the last few weeks. The walls of my brain are like graffiti walls. As with most graffiti, most of it is now gibberish. I have written and thrown a lot of scripts and mental notes, washed myself over and over, and left a long series of foot sized verbal trails on cement floors, hoping to pick and frame them later here. But the bubble burst and the sun shone, the feet walked away from the floor.

I don't even remember the last time I wrote a personal note here. Feels like a long time. And not that nothing's been happening. As a matter of fact, too many things have been happening that life seems like a flux not inching and moving and changing anymore but flowing and fixing itself into wherever it finds itself, even inside a small pickle jar, without strain, stain or pain. And you wonder whether you are growing. Because you are thinking most of the time (and that is usually a good sign) and you realize you don't understand a lot of things (and in ridiculously costly soft skill programs, they call this as moving from unconscious ignorance to conscious ignorance. Sqare (0,0) to Square (1,0). Summarized in six letters, growth)

I realize that I am increasingly becoming obscure and meaningless and bordering on unreadable (This way, I'll probably even understand James Joyce's Ulysses). Trust me, this is no sign of arrogance or contempt. I am just to lazy to linger onto any one moment and thus am letting you no time to see the drift from one drop to another each sprinkled on different planes my existence is right now divided into. My friend's been telling me that I have attained a certain mastery in stating nothingness now that I have to write a book. I think it's a good idea. Since it's good as an idea, I don't think I am going to do anything much to change its status in the future (from an idea to anything else, that is).

As always, man's greatest reasons to be creative are lass and laziness :)

PS: I have updated some info about the blogger awards at the bits blog. Do take a look.