Blink

The game we played as kids? An eye ball to eye ball fight, a contest to see who blinks first? I feel like I’m in the middle of one of those games right now. I have lost one too many rounds already, I can’t sit still, I have to blink when I have to. So what if I lose one round, I’ll exercise better restraint the next time, I keep telling myself.

How bad can it be anyways? I’m thinking.

Does blinking first mean, I’m not strong enough, no self control. Blasphemous.

Does it mean, I don’t care about winning, because blinking seems like a more important thing to do.

Does blinking so often make me an unworthy opponent.

I wonder, what happens if no one blinks at all?

That would be a rather uncomfortable situation to be in.

Who’ll blink first?

The Story Of My Life

If all the stories you wrote, if all the words you said, came to life, what is the story you would write? Would you be frozen, like the deer in the headlights, incapable of any action, or would you act on the power, and write for you a life story you truly deserve?

If someone asked the question to the me that was eight, of the story I would like to live by, the answer would have been quite a prompt & effortless one. I would have liked to run that ice cream cart, so I could have ice cream for free all day, or would have liked to paint the gaudy walls with trees & birds, a backdrop to my faux kathakali. Add in some Indiana Jones adventures to the mix, kick some ass and look for the ancient hidden treasures of the world. They’d make us very rich, I had heard. Being rich like that was the best thing that could happen to anyone, we would discuss, as we dug into the dirt with our little plastic spades, wide eyed excitement over every shiny crystal we found. With all that money, we could eat all the candy we wanted, and own a dog called dollar. How exciting would that be. So rich, and so much fun.

I like to believe, in some parallel universe, I am that child living the enchanted life I wrote for myself. A child, happy sprinting through neck high grass, like a little wild horse, with not a care in the world. The peals of laughter reverberating through the beautiful summer days, of chasing butterflies, building kitchen gardens & bird houses.

It would be great if an answer came as promptly & effortlessly now. For all those days of dreaming about powers that would be great to have, I find myself dumbstruck, just at the thought of a power so significant; the ability to live the story of my choosing and be the person I want to be, every person I want to be. It’s overwhelming, the responsibility that comes with a power like that, when the only person responsible for every twist & turn in the tale, would be me. What does one do when there is no one to blame? Scary thought that.

Looking back at the time that went by, the careless words, the unspoken ones, words that were meant to hurt, those that hurt, words that created, and those that destroyed what seemed like a complete lifetime; I have a new found respect for the power of words. The energy each one carries, the words that are written, those that are voiced, they are like pieces of a magical spell that one should never get wrong. We all know how bad a spell gone wrong can be.

The continual effort to find words that do justice to the way I feel. The uncomfortable screech of the wheels in the head, when the words don’t seem enough; the overbearing feeling, that if they were said aloud or put on paper, they would instantly turn to dust. Those times when silence says more, than any word could.

How easily they could become of a limiting nature, those words actualized, and yet each word carries within it the power to actualize all , no limits. It brings to my mind Midas’ dilemma, the realization that gold is not all that I may want.

What is that story I’d write. I wonder.

Dragonflies

I love dragonflies.

There's something mystical about the dragonfly, like it belongs to another realm.

Closely related to the forest fairies... perhaps it morphs into one at night.

It was plucked out of a fairytale, to add to the enchantment in my world.

Dragonflies and Owls. Oh, Fireflies even.... Errm. Add Toadstools & the Ladybird to that list.

The Super Moon

The Super moon on 19th March 2011, didn't look very different than the other full moons, but it sure was a gorgeous one.

Enchanting, like it always is.

And then, there was a Super moon of another kind.

Sus ojos oscuros

Sus ojos oscuros

Her dark eyes, the windows to her soul.

If you asked them, asked them right,

They would let down the guard,

Let you in, on the enchantment within.

Rising from the Ashes - The Flamenco

While I have been updating the Sketchy tab on this blog with my art work regularly, I've decided to put some of it as posts on the main page.

This one is particularly close to my heart right now, for this one is the first piece painted using my new Wacom graphic tablet. Very proud of this one.

Peacock Alert!

She noticed the new head band on my dresser, picked it, examined it carefully.

Did you wear this?, she asked

Yes. I said, as I stared into my computer screen.

These are Peacock feathers, you know?, she said.

uh huh, it has been true all this while. It's exactly how you imagined it to be.Now I have feathers to prove it, I mumbled.

Continued staring into the computer.

For the love of Graffiti

I wish I was a punk rocker with a cast on my leg, she hummed.

...with flowers in my hair, he corrected, as he ruffled her hair.

Hmm. I love graffiti, She said.

I'm so envious of all those people with a fractured leg, a cast on their foot.

Those uber cool folks, with cooler friends who doodle.Sigh!

I want a wall of my own!

He would do anything for her. He dropped frozen fish on her foot.

She howled in pain and hopped around the room, as he checked for the nearest hospital.

Be careful what you wish for, she reminded herself.

She obviously hadn't thought this one over in detail.

As the tears dried up on her cheeks, her lips broke into a smile.

She & he, they drew colorful polka dots & stars on the foot cast, as they took a taxi back home from the clinic.

♥ ♥ ♥

Box O' Candy

1st May 2010

Photo by Pieter Peeters

"Oh you got your hands on that one!” I said, a large Cheshire Cat grin stuck to my face. My attempt at happy face was a futile one, and the disappointment, my irritation that reflected on the outside was a tiny slice of the turmoil within. She, Evil-She, just beat me to the best candy in the box.

My favorite, the one who gave me many sleepless nights – the dark chocolate with a hazel-nutty center, not too bitter, not too sweet, not too hard on the outside, just precisely gooey on the inside. As my eyes brim with tears, I want to howl for the sweetness.Poking out evil-she’s eye may feel better though!

I don’t cry nor poke an eye, remind myself to breathe “Inhale... Exhale... Inhale... Exhale “. I tuck my tummy in, shoulders pulled in an upright position like a soldier maintaining his dignity after a battle lost. Stick my Cat face again, be brave and SAY THE “RIGHT” words - ”That’s a fantastic choice, hope you like it, it’s ONE of my favorites “

So much candy in the box, so many choices to make. So what if I didn’t get the one I wanted, I have the whole box to choose from. An attempt, a pathetic one, to make peace with myself.

I don’t care…I don’t care…I don’t care..I don’t care. I don’t care…. I don’t care…I don’t care.

Maybe if I chant a million times, I will start believing it too. That I truly don't care.

I won’t tell you, because I am a proud peacock, but psst... I am hurt. Can someone just be as perceptive as I am and show me some Love?

Ah! That’s the perfect solution for the heart broken lady, a chubby heart-y piece of sweet sitting pretty on the rosy wrap. ”What lies within you, O’ who sits there all prim and propah ?” a little amused at my own ignorance, a little intrigued by the intensity of a fairly simple question. Scavenging through a box o’ candy, what lies within is the question I ask.

It’s just candy, why do I care?

If this one is too mushy,

there are another twenty in there

So wreak havoc on the box,

spare not a single bite,

for you can have them all

except the one that was right.

Why is life so unfair? Why so much pain? The biggest why – Why Me every time?

SWEET REVENGE!

Whoever coined that term was probably talking about exactly this. Down went all the contents of the box. The choco-heart, too hearty tarty. The nougat, too clingy. The white, too white. The dark, too dark. I feel sick and it’s entirely your fault. If you hadn’t intruded, Mi favorito would be mine. Thanks to you I feel sick now; thanks to you my box o’ candy is all gone now. Another box I will not buy again, for losing Mi favorito, getting sick and losing you is quite a pain.

So much of bitter

over something so sweet?

What is with the damned box o’ candy….

what is really beneath?

I hear myself asking the question once again,

I need an answer, before I go completely insane

JUMP scene, musing about the time gone by. It feels like yesterday, the little angel at her impish best, in the stillness of a muggy afternoon treading into forbidden territory, the dingy hole we called the kitchen. This was the most action packed section of the old ancestral home most of the times, right now though, it was just the old mole with so many tales to tell trying to breathe, BREATHE till it would be running at neck break speed once again, keeping pace with the incessant chatter and the broth’s futile attempt at being true to its existence.

Being true to ones existence. How does one do that?

Too many cooks spoil the broth they say. But what is spoilt broth?

Is it the broth’s futile attempt at staying broth? Or is it just his evolution into something new?

If I were the broth, I wouldn’t want to be plain broth all my life

and if it takes so many cooks to “spoil” the broth…Well, just BRING ‘EM ON.

But then, that’s just me.

The broth exists because he wants to exist,

He broods about not being broth anymore because he thrives on his miseries…

He sometimes evolves because he wants to be no goody two shoes broth anymore,

He discovers his potential within…

AH! The bliss of discovering the potential within…

FLASHBACKS within a flashback… we live in a kaleidoscope don’t we?

Jumping back… little angel at her impish best, in the stillness of a muggy afternoon treading into forbidden territory. Her gait, that of a cat moving towards it prey - padded foot step, abated breath, lest the hunter became the hunted. sniff…sniff …

The sweet whiff of fresh toffee was still in the air… sweet…the cat transformed into a crazy pup … SNIFF SNIFF…it’s here somewhere, just need to find the right box. Trust the catty instincts or just dog my way through? Now that is a difficult one. Hmm.

If a Cat or dog… there is no problem. It’s when the humanoid robot steps in, is when the trouble begins. The animal instincts tell me GO…GO get what you want, nothing will stop you…

The potty-trained human gets me wondering…

Should I?

Should I not?

What if I fall getting the box down?

What if someone catches me in the ACT?

The moment is lost… what could be is NOT anymore. So many such precious moments lost to … reason... fear … guilt or something as stupid.

Only if, I got back to being the animal…

Only if, I could get back to my basic instincts…

Only if, I could act on the basis of my instincts.

“ONLY IF”…

My instincts… the toffee... Mi Favorito …THE WORLD …

It’s all about how passionate I am about getting what I WANT Isn’t it?

There is no place for mediocre… NO PLACE

The cherub …. Rabia…an imp…an angel..

Fresh toffee… the ONLY thing that mattered

Little Rabia…the wild child turned “human”

ANIMAL… That was the pure animal moment…

The angel said NO…

The devil said GO…

So GO it was… it’s always the GO that’s more fun , that’s life and the way to live

DAMN THE RULES!

I WANT THE TOFFEE…. and I want it NOW!!...So loud and clear … That’s all that matters

Little mop head in her pretty summer dress, onto the kitchen counter in a swift feline move. Rabia always wanted adventure… well…ok it wasn’t something that she yearned for…nothing that she was “looking for “ when I think, of it today… It was just her way of life …she saw life for what it was, and everyday was an adventure of a different kind.

SPOTTED…There it is… all that toffee sitting in the jar on the top most shelf.

That’s a very handsome jar… akin the royal guard in protective armor, sealed lid, grim composure et al… thought Rabia

He is just doing his job…

“The toffee is your liability now, guard her with you life “ they said

“ Live by it…die for it”

Did they really mean for him to die for it? Was the toffee really so important?

So easy to tell someone else to die for a cause…

SACRIFICE…

Be MODEST…

Always put someone else’s needs before your own…

If you say “I” too often ….ITS SELFISH

You never want to be called “selfish”

He was the sentry trained by the Old mole though… the shelf had been his home for many eras and he was not programmed to contemplate about his existence …

He lived by the rules and would die by it… no questions asked.

“How are you today … Mr. Hand-me-some-toffee Jar Sir? “ asked Rabia. No response.

Rabia was the enemy … she belonged to the “brood”

It was she …and many more like her that he was supposed to guard from

And then… no one had really asked him the question before.

“ Why is the brat asking me about me anyways? “

“ She does not care about me!!”

“ She only cares about what I carry today”

The crowd started stirring inside the arena…

Mr. Hand-me-some-toffee Jar a.k.a. Maximus forgot his dialogues for the day

The crowd gathered to watch the Gladiator was beginning to see the Beautiful Mind

He forgot he had to throw Little-demon-Rabia off the kitchen counter

He also forgot he had a cause to live for…some toffee to protect.

Just then … the clutter-headed-cutlery started clamoring

Mr. Hand-me-some-toffee Jar Sir … you have committed a crime this afternoon

YES …A CRIME…

You said “me”, “me” and another “me”…

AND if that was not crime enough… an “I”? How shameful

Have you forgotten your code of conduct?

Is all the history lost?

Have you forgotten about the cause? “Your” cause?

Mr. Hand-me-some-toffee Jar …It wasn’t his job to think

He panicked, “Have I really committed a crime? “

Oh damn! Something isn’t right “ I am thinking once again” Panic…PANIC…

Everyone was saying he had committed a crime

If everyone said that, not possible that all of them are wrong…(or are they?)

He tried…tried REAL HARD…but the thoughts wouldn’t stop…

A flood gate had opened somewhere … all hell broke loose

Rabia had “hoped” to make a new friend;

She had seen the sweet core…sweet core of the sentry so stern. She had “hoped” to understand “How…so much bitter over something so sweet”

Little did she know that Mizz Life was standing Just around the corner and she had some cruel lesson to teach…

Rabia reached for Mr. Hand-me-some-toffee Jar…

Someone has to make the first move…someone has to reach out… Rabia did

Rabia’s mother always told her she was “the spring”

She was the tiny bud on the frozen tree that marked the arrival of spring…

She was the beautiful chirping of birds heralding that spring was here…

She was hope of a beautiful day after the long cold winter had passed away…

Someone had to reach out…Rabia did…

Mr. Hand-me-some-toffee Jar… saw the onset of an identity crisis

He had never questioned before…

He had never been accused before…

HE HAD committed a crime and it was time for him to go…

Mr. Hand-me-some-toffee Jar…plunged three shelves down

He plunged to his death…

All the sweetness amongst shards, did not look sweet anymore

Did he die being true to his existence? Or his existence just did not feel worthwhile anymore?

Rabia was shocked…

The spring stood frozen in her shoes and all hope was gone

The wild child turned human

She blamed herself for all that had happened

She cried in hope that she could take back what she had done

She promised herself she would never reach out…. never ever

CHOKE! Am dying... Bad chocolate.

Am allergic to walnut...I can't breathe...

Don't these candy boxes carry a disclaimer.

Just like the M&M candy pack ...'this may contain nuts' or something like that.

Only if My box 'o candy came with a warning...'BEWARE OF THE WAL-NUT' .

Only if life came with a disclaimer...

'A BEEP BEEP Nut warning'

OR something louder like a fire engine WAIL, to stop me from making all the bad choices I made. Sigh!

What a Pickle!

We No Speak Americano

Such brilliant coordination & super creative. I just fell in love with these folks! ♥

My way and the highway. Same difference.

You are right and I am right and let us all live in peace. Why can't people live with that? Why is it that one feels a sense of achievement only when he has submission from the other party, some credit for being the right one in the discussion? Or is that the point of a discussion?...to go hoist a teeny weeny flag of victory in the cranium of the other, a fort conquered, a point made.. 1-Luv ...Point 1 to Y, next serve X.

I always wonder about people who are so adamant about their way being the only right way. The inflexible, “my way or the highway” attitude sometimes seems to me like one’s desperate attempt at convincing the critic within self, more than the other party in discussion; like repeating something a hundred times will somehow make it all real. A frantic attempt at holding on to beliefs, eyes & ears shut to what the other person is saying, lest the other person says something that shakes the foundation of our belief system of many years. How far do we go before we snap under pressure of our own rigidity?

On the other hand, if someone is stuck up on flexibility, does that make the person stuck up or flexible!? As someone very intelligent said, “Too much of anything is a bad thing”. Maybe even the case with flexibility. Flexibility is great, one of the most important traits required to take us through life, but where do we draw the line?

Does flexibility mean being a “YES” man at all times? Saying yes to anything and everything just so we can keep those around us happy... at the expense of being unhappy ourselves ? Does it mean living a life sans an opinion of our own, going by another’s opinion...just so that peace prevails!? Give up ones freewill, so as to be the martyr in the battle for peace. How far do we go before someone snaps a collar around our necks for being a tad bit too flexible?

And then, maybe true flexibility is just about acknowledging the other point of view, it is about being aware of an alternate reality which is as real as our own and being comfortable with the differences. No pressure to make it a one view world. Live and let live.

A good debater never lives under the false impression of a one sided story. He knows both sides of the story and decides to argue from a side he is more comfortable with, knowing very well that there exists another view, one that is as real as his own. Only if we could tackle life and the varied views of the bioscope with similar scrutiny, evolve so our views are inclusive instead of exclusive of realities other than our own.

Someday, flexible or not, we will question our own beliefs, Ask why!? And I pray real hard, when that happens, the voice that replies back is our own and there is no stranger we see in the mirror.

This is your Life

Limon Y Sal

As part of the assignment at Spanish class, I had to translate the Julieta Venegas song ,"Limon y Sal" and describe the video. I was quite thrilled for coming across a love song that I absolutely loved almost instantly and a video that I love even more.

The video is of a Charles Chaplin-esque silent black and white quality, with the song playing in the background. It is no word to word nursery school dramatization of the song, but is so multi layered and convoluted that it adds to the dimension of the song itself.

I started this post, wanting to narrate the story... my interpretation of the song. The multi layered dream that it is, a story within a story, all the deciphering, that was enough to get me ecstatic over something others dismissed for its weirdness.I am no sheep. I love weird.

Although, as I continue writing this, the interpretation does not seem too important.It would be the inception of an additional layer to the story, and I'd rather have you design your own story. A story I absolutely love. A story I hope you see.

Julieta Venegas - Limon Y Sal (Official Music Video). Watch more top selected videos about: Julieta Venegas

Tengo que confesar que a veces, no me gusta tu forma de ser,

(I have to confess that sometimes, I don't like the way you are)

luego te me desapareces y no entiendo muy bien porque,

(then you disappear & I don't understand very well why)

no dices nada romantico cuando llega el atardecer,

(You say nothing romantic, when it is dark)

te pones de un humor extraño con cada luna llena al mes.

(You are in a strange mood with evert full moon of the month)

Pero a todo lo demás, le gana lo bueno que me das,

(But all that remains, is get the good you give meh)

solo tenerte cerca, siento que vuelvo a empezar.

( Only having you close to me, I feel that I'm back to the start)

Chorus

Yo te quiero con limon y sal, (I love lemon & salt)

yo te quiero tal y como estas,(I love you as you are)

no hace falta cambiarte nada,(You don't need to change nothing)

yo te quiero si vienes o si vas, ( I love you if you come or if you go)

si subes y bajas y no estas seguro de lo que sientes.

(If you are high & low & you are not sure of what you feel)

Tengo que confesarte ahora, nunca creí en la felicidad,

(I have to confess to you now, I never believed in happiness

a veces algo se le parece, pero es pura casualidad,

(sometimes some things seem a certain way,but is pure coincidence)

Luego me vengo a encontrar con tus ojos me dan algo mas,

(Then I come to find with your eyes they give me something more)

solo tenerte cerca, siento que vuelvo a empezar.

(Only to have you close, I feel that I am back to the start)

Chorus x 2

Solo tenerte cerca siento que vuelvo a empezar.

(Only to have you close, I feel that I am back to the start)

An ode to the appraisal

They want me to play my part right

Jack rabbit in Shakespeare is quite rare

Jack rabbit in Shakespeare would surely be interesting

It's a different story though,meant for a different ring

The spot light is where I want to be

The mob is here for Brutus, not for hoppity skip shindig

Brutus is what I will play today

Take a slow bow, Send a quick kiss in the air

Jack rabbit in Shakespeare would surely be interesting

It's a different story though,meant for a different ring

Teleported

Sultry summer day, as I ride down to work in a super rattle of a rickshaw… I catch on the air, a whiff of greens from the vegetable market, below. The early morning market by the flyover, with the freshest of peas, spinach and all things green.

The cars whizzing past, from the opposite direction… Miles Davis playing in the ear phones …This could be a wonderful shot for a new age documentary... a fast paced stylish thriller maybe!

Jump scene ~ there I was, dressed in a white linen blouse and a beige skirt; a wide brimmed hat, and beige stilettos that also worked as a back up on the ammo front. And the super stylish Jackie Kennedy shades of course. How can any picture of the Mediterranean thriller be complete without that piece of gorgeousness .

Sitting at the street side cafe ... in a shaky hand held camera frame... I waited for that message. A note on crisp white handmade paper, embossed in gold the words "the Alpha & the Omega". I waited for it to surface from the mugginess of the air , a clue to what was in store for me ahead.

Restless... sitting in a shaky frame can be as disturbing as watching the rain come down on a bladder ready to burst. "Tap tap tap ", my heels added to the rhythm of the wobble ... the Miles Davis thrown in, I could see the order in the chaos now. I could feel myself getting ready to drop the act in the Moroccan drama and get back to the rickshaw sans the exotic. Maybe break into a dance on the roof of the rickshaw even.

How do I get back to reality though? Which one was my reality anyways!? Whatever happened to the message, I wondered. Messages are supposed to come easy. Easy & Effortless.

Waiting for the "sign".... still waiting... some more.

I decided to spend my time waiting, over a cup of kahwa. I took a tiny sip of the dense bitterness...a tiny sip is all it took & the world around me collapsed...a tiny sip, and all the pieces fell into place right away. As quickly as I jumped from the rickshaw to the exotic Moroccan tale...I was transported back to the mundane.

In my hand, I held a folded piece of handmade paper. My heart skipped a beat, at the sight of the message that surfaced out of thin air, I carefully opened the folds to read the message it held.

"The Alpha & the Omega" ... is all it said. That was all it was, all this while, easy & effortless. Truly, the beginning & the end.

Faux Peacock

He had been in a foul mood all day, kicking up a storm, cussing his heart out. I had no idea, what it was that had him twisted in a knot.

Poor pup dopey had gotten kicked a few times already; the next kick and Shraaz would lose a chunk of his foot. I was very sure. Any more cussing and a snapped head, that’s what he would have. Of that I was doubly sure.

Shraaz went to the cupboard, it had been in the family through many generations, seen many a skeletons. When one has lived so long, nothing really ever shocks. He pulled out an old tin box, it held candy once, the fading print last of its memories of better, sweeter days. Shraaz now pulled out a tuft of fuzz, a five strand hair piece. It looked like something the cat brought in. It was his prized possession. The men in his family, up until four generations before him had worn the bit with great pride. It had seen better days, days when the strands were many more.

With his preciousness held gently in the palm of his hands, Shraaz pulled out a can of silver spray. Like an artist working on his masterpiece, he sprayed across the strands with utmost precision. Out came the tube of glue , “ Stick ‘em up Pardner”, the energies looked like they were brightening up, all ready to cut through the gloom set by the Shraaz-ness all morning.

The glue went onto the fuzz... he slapped it onto his scantily clad head. The foul mood was all magically gone. The furry silver crown had brought out the peacock in Shraaz. With his silver fringe, the shining glory, he strutted around in circles, arrogance dripping all over.

It was a difficult choice, didn’t quite know what I liked better, his crass or the royal, pain in the rear end arrogant version.

Shraaz was in all surety the last who would use the head piece.

A silver crown is all that’s required to change the drama? A piece of magic ... did it do the exact same thing five generations in a row?

How can a harmless piece of nothing become a piece of program so vital to ones existence? I wonder... I wonder about my own program peacock, that vestigial bit of my psyche which has overstayed its visit. Time for the faux peacock hunt!

Peacock Man by John Coulthart