Thoughts of a Frosty Friday

Love is easily found in food. Easily lost, when it reaches your gastric juice bag. Easily salvaged, with a good burp.

We all have the potential to fall in love a thousand times in our lives.

It's easy.

The first thing I ever loved was a little pup I used to feed biscuits to, each day on my way to play school. He would follow me every morning. He would make me happy because he would remind me of the girl who had a lamb follow her to school.

The last person I will love will be someone I haven't even met yet, probably.

They all count.

But there are certain people you love who do something else; they define how you classify what love is supposed to feel like. These are some of the most important people in your life, and you'll meet maybe four or five of these people over the span of eighty years.

But there is still one more tier to all this; there is always one person you love who becomes that definition. It usually happens retrospectively, but it happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of these lovable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable. The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different than anyone else, and they're often just the person you happen to meet the first time you really, really, want to love someone.

But that person still wins.

They win and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else.

Small Sagas #5

Memoirs of a Fallen Punk

It had been quite a while,

That the curtain had been hanging around.

So it unhooked itself in style,

And lay peacefully on the ground.

Small Sagas #5

Thought Provoking Lines

This is oddly cute.

Certainty

Quick and new resolves continue to surprise me.

Roma is an 8 year old girl I met during a volunteering program for a mid-day meal scheme, at a nearby school. She was responsible for lining up the girls of her class for the meals to be served that day.

An overly enthusiastic and chirpy kid, she happily went about her chores; making sure everyone from her class had collected their plates and food, before she sat down to eat.

I too, sat close by, perplexed, as I saw the little girls chat away to glory and laugh endlessly on the silliest of jokes. Every now and then, a pair of eyes would drift towards the containers of food by the volunteers' side, only to return back to the plates that were seemingly empty by now,

And then very courageously did our little Roma walk up to me and ask for a second serving.

The timid yet profoundly bold utterance of the word "Didi" (elder-sister) worked like a signal to the others in the group. And soon several girls were approaching us for another serving.

The entire incident played clearly in front of my eyes, resonating to soundly with another one right out of a Dickens' novel. Only, today the circumstances were different. But one thing that remained congruent was the spirit these little brave-hearts had shown.

A simple but sure step had made the day a memorable one for certain!

Wandering Words #4

Of Winds and Laughter

All he needed was freedom.

The winds had picked up

And the sails had caught the breeze

Taking notice of the commotion

He ran to the porch with much ease

It had been quite a while

Since he had stepped out into the garden

For the lifeless abiotic component

had finally come to beg his pardon

Days of sun baked toil had

Reaped him a great harvest

It was time for the rains to arrive already

It was time for him to rest

From deep within his happy heart

Came the sound of the heartiest laughter

Only because his dreams had come true

His happily ever after

Confined freedom.
Image courtesy - Google Images

The Painting

Pain demands to be felt. - John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

It is a good painting.

It is unique and beautiful.

But you sense that there is something like pain within the beauty.

We often find tears trailing our faces across situations in our daily lives.

The things that really shake the human soul are not beauty or kindness.

Although, such things are certainly moving, these feelings do not last long.

However, anger or sadness are different.

They leave an indelible mark even after the wounds heal.

You can never forget the pain completely.

Many people have felt the pain, but there are very few who can express it.

And many choose art for the same.

Furthermore, it is only those rare few who can bring out the pain in their paintings.

It is easy to exhibit technique and skill. Expressing emotion is not. It demands you to bear your soul to the world.

Any work of art has forever been inspired by what has been seen, observed or witnessed.

They figure out little miracles on the larger canvas of life, to translate its enigmatic beauty into a mystery that is often left unresolved.

In the end, it is only a great painting.

Wandering Words #3

Burping Babies

Revenge is a dish best served cold, garnished with a little unnecessary banter.

Being the eldest kid in the family, I have seen almost all my brothers and sisters as infants, unconsciously registering little quirks now and then.The quirks of being a baby. And so we visited my aunt, to celebrate as the family welcomed another little child into the world. We spent the whole evening cooing over the said baby. The first half was spent arguing who the baby looked like and people took sides. The conflict was imminent and no one stopped to say what difference does it make.

Then the baby was passed around and jogged on the knee and passed around some more, ad no one asked the baby what he felt being shoved from hand to hand. I am sure if babies could talk, they would have a thing or two to say about being tickled on the tummy and chuckled under the chin and suffering people making ridiculous sounds in their faces. How would you like someone doing "kitchey kitchey koo" to you all evening?

And then there are advent-age parents manning all stations, tracking the baby's sounds like a radar controller keeping a check on the traffic at an airport; all the electric gizmos going full beep. 'Look darling he's gurgling again'. At which she leaps up and rushes to the baby, and turns to the congregation and says, he gurgled! Did you hear him gurgle?This is a signal for the rest to engage in a marveling debate on gurgles and +babies. The father, by far the most fatuous element in the baby syndrome, then proceeds to tell you that his baby, unlike other babies his age, recognizes people because he smiles in response and he is only three months old, three months can you believe it!!

Now if you are one of those rude, unfeeling people who believe there is a stopping point in enthusiasm for baby talk, you say, he's not smiling it's probably just gas. So a solemn friend of the father's remarks, he's not smiling, it has tummy troubles. This immediately prompts a discussion on the difference between gas smiles and natural smiles.

And while that poor guy still cannot believe what's happening to him and is trying to figure the reason behind all this treacherous blighter. In the mean time, the baby in his hands, looked at him and began to howl, which brought the  mother rushing to the baby's defense and the grandfather, once a mean sergeant in the army, stared at him and accusingly said, he didn't like that guy from the start itself, my grandson never cries otherwise.

Something else, I suppose, went down the drain that day. I sensed the faint smell of a twenty year old friendship. +Ouch. Then as the victimized uncle wrestled with this indictment, I hear someone else re-route the conversation back to square one by saying, there is no question he looks just like his mother, someone else says, I think he is feeling cold. No, says the mother, he only kicks his legs when he is warm.

Nonsense, says the daddy, he does that when he is hungry, you've got to watch him eat, it's a treat.

This last is said to the guests who then get all excited about their major entertainment, as if it were two tickets to the world cup finals and the paraphernalia is brought out so our little dimkums can have his cerelac or whatever goo babies are fed these days, There are bibs with +Mickey Mouse motifs and plastic cups with +Minnie Mouse grinning at you, and spoons and potties and ringers and soothers and other support systems so you'd think they were moving house rather than feeding the baby mashed bananas.

Finally the kid has had his fill and at this point everyone goes in red alert. HE MUST BURP.

Everyone seems to have an opinion on how best babies are burped. 

On the tummy. 

Standing up. 

Topsy turvy. 

Thump on the back. 

Pat on the shoulder. 

Rub him down. 

Sshh, quiet, says dad, we've got to hear him burp. 

Silence collides with suspense.

Was that a burp?

No, it was a hiccup.

Sshh, again.

What's that ,I am sure that was a burp.

Nope, false alarm.

This goes on for several minutes. Some babies hold out till everyone is on their knees begging them, please, please get that burp out, make our day.

I think it's the baby's way of getting even for all the hassling it gets from adults. The baby was secretly happy. Probably, the same cannot be said for that still solemn uncle.

Wandering Words #2

For Crying Out Loud ^.^

YIPPE!!

Over 20 posts, 20 countries and 2 months later, I realize what an amazing seed of a thought had transformed itself into an ever-growing plant, credits +Ameya Jain 

Writing this blog has been a great joy!

A huge thanks to all the readers, your support has been phenomenal.

Here's to infinities!

Much love

The Freelancer

Small Sagas #4

Futuristic Vengeance

Ten million years from now

when the earth falls

to enormous earth ruling

and excessively evolved daffodils,

It is our limbs they will pluck

as they might callously chant

"He loves me, he loves me not..."

Travel

I do not travel much.

I occasionally step into a taxi, only to get to another place; a place that I must reach on time.

I close my eyes and open them again. They fixate themselves on what lies behind this mechanically animate glass shield.

We pass people, we pass robots, only clockworks in actuality. Rushing off to the same eventualities, day in and day out. Suffering the same hardships, celebrating the same joys.

I do not say anything.

For I do not travel much.

On some days the sun is a friend, it helps me. On others, it does not. It is on the other days that my pet cloud keeps me in shade. But it too sometimes, rains down on my parade.

This is why I like the sun better. He treats everyone the same. It can be surprisingly warm, it can be relentlessly harsh. While some prefer to drape a cloth over their head, some choose the shadow of a bus shelter. 

I am fascinated by some choices. 

But I do not travel much.

We tend to stop at these recurrent traffic signals very often. They seem to drag on forever. I hear the endless rumbling, and honking, and grumbling. It is almost funny how everyone puts in a consistent effort to test each others’ patience. Like a jungle at midnight, only raided off its silence. A loud night safari of sorts.

However, I am not supposed to know.

I do not travel much.

I suppose these roads like to entwine about these flyovers and the flyovers about these roads. I am still unsure. But they wind and unwind. Dancing, with the concrete landscape as their dance-floor, following a hectic routine. 

It is almost nauseating.   

But I do not travel much.

Blooming laburnums become a distraction. They are too beautiful to be bystanders. Sometimes, I spot a pink or an odd yellow flower growing from between the cracks in the pavement. It makes me happy in a vaguely gloomy way. I mean, yes, there exist several possibilities where the little bloom may be mindlessly trampled upon by an ignorant pedestrian. But it dared to flower in such a dangerous location in the first place.

An obstinate and unforgiving world.

Also, I do not travel much.

These roads also change colour every now and then. Smooth at some places, pebbly and frayed at some, some covered with potholes and puddles, some dusty and musty. I see them all. It can become a roller-coaster ride.

Thrilling and exhilarating.

But then, I do not travel much.

I see streets both chaotic and clean. Some are lined by mongers, seeking to make a livelihood on those sidewalks. Several have manicured lawns and well kept hedges to add to their beauty. Some are crucial to the functioning of many households; some to that of an entire nation. 

But they are roads nonetheless. 

After all, I do not travel much.

There are vacant benches and busy park rides. Swings that sway endlessly. Tall towers cast looming shadows on the playground. Some are not tall enough. Some are not towers at all. I get off to take a picture but decide against it. I need a little perspective. So I stretch out my hand towards the names of those who showed great valour a long time ago, only to be forgotten today. 

I shut an eye. I catch nothing but grasp something.

I am hungry yet slightly pacified.

I am in a trance yet slightly awakened.

My visual abilities seem to have magnified, sans the glass that had been a limiting factor. My dad calls out to me to get back in, already used to my bizarre urges. I walk back behind that transparent screen, inspired and amused.

I have a few questions. They seem to be silly. 

But who do I ask? 

Or should I ask them really? 

For you see, I do not travel much...

PS- A huge thanks to Pranav Khanna for some great captures! Peace out.

Wandering Words #1

Exploring Lullabies

“Rock-a-bye-baby, on the tree top,When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, And down will come baby, cradle and all”

There is something magical about a lullaby. The experience of listening to one is quite unlike anything else. It is almost impossible listening to one without responding to it with an emotion that one never fully understands. Even without knowing the words we know exactly what a lullaby intends, even if we are unable to put the words to that deep source of knowledge. 

On the face of it, lullabies soothe, comfort and lull the awake into sleep; indeed that is their essential function. They help babies feel protected and cocooned as they slip into the tender arms of sleep. Mothers envelop their little ones with a musical translation of the overwhelming and unconditional love they feel.

Why do they tremble with some deep indefinable sense of liquid melancholy? Why do they ache with a nameless yearning for things lost and things that cannot be found?

Think of a lullaby and you will be struck by a tinge of sweet sadness that accompanies it. Often the words too, like in the case of the all-time favourite - Rock-a-bye-baby, are less than soothing. Across cultures, the lullaby carries traces of sorrow, an imprint of some final and inconsolable incompleteness.

The purpose of a lullaby is anything but sad. The baby needs comforting and absolute protection from all sources of fear. The lullaby imitates the rocking motion of a cradle with simple repetitive phrases and basic melody. But unlike the nursery rhyme, where the melody produces little emotional effect, the lullaby infuses everyone listening with a powerful sense of longing.

In some ways perhaps the musical structure of lullabies in their desire to soothe, comes close to that of dirges. The slowness and tenderness of the tune makes it tinged with an unmistakable air of melancholia. In this sense, sadness is not intrinsic but merely a musical by product.

There is a sense of separation and the baby’s going away to distant lands that evokes a certain gloomy feeling, that is all the more powerful because it is not real.The lullaby is nothing but a song of the baby being cast adrift ever so slowly on the solitary journey called 'Life'. As adults when we hear this song, we are reminded what we have lost and what we can never hope to regain.

All of our lives we are driven to pursue the idea of individuality, of shining in our special separateness. The paradise of completeness has been lost to a quest for individualism. The lullaby draws us back, without our becoming quite aware of it, to the ideal we might truly desire, one where we are never singular, never incomplete.

The lullaby is a bridge to infinity of longing, and ode to the illusion of belonging. 

It tells what is the most beautiful and what makes us feel the purest emotions is also the most transient. 

The lullaby is a tender chronicle of life told in reverse.

Small Sagas #3

Missed

Some stories are only whispered so shadily among these flowers

Where there are no cities or communication towers

Her coffee is getting cold as she waits for him to miss her

While his cigarettes are running out as he tries to forget her.

Her +coffee is getting cold...with another that lies neglected.
Image Courtesy - +GoogleImages

Consequences

Words are best when turned into actions.

Six feet under those who seek shelter

In distant future only stones will pelter

Come out of hiding, go out and seize the day

Fifteen or fifty, only working will pave way

Unlock the doors and blow the windows open

Stop the clock and leave no truth unspoken

Although when living true, you may feel lost

A thousand times, the prize is worth the cost

Let down all the walls and drop all the pretenses

Dismantle the trapdoors and barbed wire fences

Invite the good, the bad, the beauty in

Through once thick skin, now beautifully thin

Confusion and uncertainty may drop on you like bombs

Inactivity makes dust piles over these catacombs

Take measure, take step, do it all to bring a change

Unselfish actions have an infinite range

True strength is found in those who cry the most

In those who neither need nor fear to boast

In the childishness of those in love with living

Who know that getting

is a consequence

of giving.

+Unselfish actions have an +infinite range.

Image courtesy - +Google Images

The Dawn Of A New Period

But old man Hydrogen still isn't happy.

The isotopes were overjoyed. They had finally been able to get together. The long form of the periodic table was to be credited for this celebration. Sitting along in the same frame they cursed the wretch known to them as Mendeleev.

Fairly recently had he appeared. The evil genius who was hell bent upon presenting to the world the crafty fruit of his scientific exploits. Initially, everyone was awestruck by the systematized beauty created by the scientist. Gradually but eventually, everyone came to recognize the filthy trap that the citizens of the Kingdom of Laboratory had been lured into.

It was not long before they saw the receiving end of the bargain. Periodic scrutiny and marginalization became an everyday thing. The aristocrats were very happy.

Only, they were unaware of the silent revolution being stirred by some scheming apprentices planning to overthrow the dark lord that Mendeleev had become.

Then a wave of reform washed over everything, something that would transform the anarchy of the chemical laboratory permanently.

And out of the muck and chaos of misplaced elements, dissatisfied anomalous pairs, frenzied lanthanoids and crazed actinoids; was born a new a convention. A system based on the constructs developed by one of the supreme contributors of the atomic universe.

Thanks to the modern periodic law, peace was hence restored in the Kingdom of Laboratory, where wonders are not unexpected.

The Periodic Anarchy

Image courtesy - Google Images

Wishful Thinking

Seldom.

Oh my dearest star, tonight

Let me lie in your shimmering light.

Show me your face and shy away,

Bright or diffused, you are here to stay.

Giving you something special of mine,

A promise you'll preserve while you shine.

Aeons later, when we unite again,

It'll only be cited as insane.

This packet of love between you and me,

Will fade amidst a yellow sea.

Fetch a ferry when it's time,

Until then, I'll write this dismal rhyme.

Small Sagas #2

A little patience can put things into perspective.

There had always been sights we had wished to foresee,

With fickle minds that never understood, we took measures quickly.

So when we were young, we forced giants into the sea,

Where they became only mountains of the gentle things they used to be.

Night Lights

There is more to astronomy than just a lesson in physics.

Procrastination, I suspect, is soon going to be added on to the list of those seven deadly sins, increasing the tally to a total of eight. So what is a sin exactly? I mean, how much should an act have to fall for it to be considered what the dictionary defines as- breaking a "moral law". I feel it may be perceived by an individual as a guilt inducing activity. 

And let us just agree that losing weight, or becoming ‘fitter’ as some may choose to call it, is something that at least forty percent of the world’s population vouches for in the name of a New Year resolution. A resolution that is so irresolutely broken in the days that soon follow. In the midst of a sincerely hectic schedule, all my activities had unconsciously centered themselves around my table. I had lost my morning exercise routine to something that required greater attention. Naturally, my physical activity had been reduced to almost nothing. And of course, with the continued intake of the heavenly delights promised by a rich Indian home-made meal, I ended up shamelessly putting on a few extra kilos.

With some major papers done and dusted, I decided to kick start the the rickety old scooter that my exercise schedule had become. But the key to that scooter was nowhere to be found. And I was one hundred percent sure that they had been hidden by the wily elf that procrastination is.

Then after a few words of what I can safely call "advice" from from my mum, I went outside for a post dinner stroll in the neighborhood street.

It felt different, slightly, but different.

I saw the light from the street lamp filter through the very tree that had been a plant-let some odd eleven years ago. I was amazed as the shadows shifted shapes, while the branches waltzed in the wind. The rays of light as they screened through the spaces, were like spotlights, lighting the path of every little arthropod as they scurried around aimlessly. The tiniest bits of silica lay mingled with the dust all around, reflecting this radiation; giving the illusion of an embellished saree draped so very wonderfully on a bride on her most special day.

The cricket synchronized its chirping with the honking of distant cars somewhere close by. I could have sworn he was attempting to recreate a concerto with one of Beethoven's symphonies. The only thing that had been missing from the picture was a sky full of stars. No description of the night is ever complete without their mention. And so I shifted my gaze towards the hazy dark sky, but they were nowhere to be found. I roamed around in circles, front-stepped, back-stepped, side-stepped and even stepped over the pavement. I was wrong in thinking that becoming a foot taller may prove to be helpful.

You see, that's the thing about city skies. Unless you are some astronomy enthusiast who knows a thing or two about where to look and how to look, everyday people like me find it difficult to find those glowing orbs that float far away. The pursuit for momentary happiness all in vain.

I want to see a sky full of stars. The colossal nothingness glorified in movies. The same stars that are beautifully described in endless piles of books. The glittery skies that have had countless songs written about them. The iconic stars that each Disney fairy-tale wakes up to. The prudent stars that have guided our kind since times unknown. The dazzling stars that weave fascinating patterns, we have come to call constellations. The suffering stars that are no longer visible in these concrete jungles, shrouded in the ghastly blanket of black and strangling smoke. The bright stars that once used to light up these nights. These obscured stars that have gone somewhere in hiding.

I want to see a clear sky that accompanies me on nights such as these, when I am out for a stroll. Something to distract me, something to escape into, while I run away from these tragic kilos.

Distance

Focal adjustment helps.

When nothing seemed fitting and right anyway

The once confident feet began to sway

Time and time again the yearning would begin

For all pre-conceived notions had started to spin

In the pale of midnight, I tried to take flight

But my wings were too weak and the stars too bright

So I waited a week till the winter winds blew

Stars were shrouded in clouds and the moon was too

A warm sensation then overcame my being

Fighting to keep these temperatures roaring

Not a thing alive witnessed my wings unfold

As my breath grew quick and my heart grew bold

And soon I was soaring, oh upwards and on

Till the sky was all around, and the ground was gone

And I watched as each object, each person, each place

Became one glowing orb spinning slowly in space

From such unfathomable heights I began to wonder

Would falling be rough, or should I already surrender

And I thought to myself through the eyes of a bird

This life and this earth seem entirely absurd

Then suddenly I felt indescribably small

And wondered if anything mattered at all

Like what people wished for or what people felt

Or whether the icecaps would finally melt

Then I realized after an hour or two 

That things matter because they matter to you

Although what you do won’t change much from up here

It can comfort or crush those you find yourself near

This universe may be enormous and strange

But look close to home there’s much you can change

And now that I know it, That’s just what I’ll do

Informed and enthused by my new point of view

It seems that such questions as grand as existence

Can only be solved from a reasonable distance.

Look close to home there is much you can change.

Capture Credits - Kriti Prabhakar :)

PS - Check out Miss Photographer's page at https://www.facebook.com/kritip.photography !

Small Sagas #1

The Chronicle Of a Cold Chapatti

The flour and the water were feeling very cold,

so they huddled together in a mixing bowl.

The bone chilling winds weren't deterred by their agglutination,

so the mix flattened and found its way to the hot iron nation.

The whole process so wonderfully put together by +Ameya Jain :D

The Snow Storm

A blanket of snow provides a special kind of warmth.

I can remember all of it since the moment I have started having memories.

My past is so clear to me.

I couldn't forget anything even if I tried.

Sometimes I hate that I am this way, born with a mind that burns all memories indelibly into my brain.

They pile up one after another, these memories, as vivid as the day they were made.

However, there is one event...one fleeting moment in time that, try as I may, I just cannot recall.

I have struggled so often to bring it back to my consciousness, but the closer I feel to it, the farther it slips away.

A short dialogue with my mother...at a small park on a snowy day...I can remember the beginning and then it is gone.

“Mama, what’s that?”

“Why, it’s snow.”

Then the image fades into static white.

Like I am inside a cloud.

Like the whole world is a snow storm.

"It's cold. Cold and tingly. What is it?"

"It's called Snow."

"Snow?"

"That's right, snow. A present from the heavens."

"You mean from God?"

"Yes dear, every winter he covers the trees with it. When winter arrives, the trees and grass grow brown and lonely. Well, God sends down snow to cover that up. He makes the entire world glow, like a bed of silver roses. When life gets difficult, don't let it hurt you. Just hide for a little while...until they thaw...in a world of beauty and light."

"Mama, why are you crying?"

"Listen to me child, you need to be strong to make it in this life. You can't be a weakling like me, you have to be...oh dear, your hands are so cold. Give them to me, I'll warm them up."

There it is. That forgotten memory. My mother she took my hands in hers... and they had a warmth of their own.

That's all.

I wonder why I couldn't remember.

Such deep warmth.

Such an inner warmth.

Her warm caring hands.

Yes, I now remember how they felt on that snowy silvery morning.

So soothing. So reassuring.

The Blessed Unrest

I found a farewell poem.

It is in times of chaos, that we come to harmonize with ourselves, our aura. Escaping may seem a wiser choice at first because it brings about the gratification of our immediate needs. However, it will be courage and courage itself that will help us face our fallacies. If not so, we will become prey to the claws of our very own souls as they struggle to break free from the confines of a constitution that has now been defiled. The elemental turmoil will lead us to our mirth. Discord will induce accord. The initial unrest will indeed be blessed. 

I came across this exceptionally beautiful poem by Misao Fujimura and I really feel that it is worth a read.

Delicate line between heaven and earth…

The calm of the ages,

all the world’s worth.

Such minuscule measure,

while we think it so grand…

Just five specks of smallness,

This soft quiet land.

So frail and so fleeting,

in the end you will see

Simple dreams were Horatio's philosophy.

For all the truth,

all creation,

all secrets of yore

Can be told in an instant,

by then they’re no more.

Ah, The Unexplainable

All worries unsettled,

heartache unresolved…

All questions unanswered,

with death, shall be solved.

We already teeter,

this sheer cliff so high.

When we fall to corruption,

insecurities die.

To end is to start;

to surrender is to know.

Despair and depression,

together they grow.

Hope shall meet hopeless

when there’s nowhere to go.

Planting An Onion

Growing a plant has its parallels with raising a child.

As part of a biology experiment based on mitotic divisions in cells, we had to collect root tip samples. Our teacher advised us to choose onions for the same. And thus, I set out on this mission with high hopes of obtaining something magical in the end. This could probably be blamed on the fairy tales that we had grown up listening to. The child in me obviously envisioned the enormous plant right out of 'Jack and the Beanstalk'. The Freudian ego dismissed the idea as a silly one immediately, and so I was back on track.

After having removed the outer flaky covering, I pulled off some loose, dead ends and placed the onion on the brim of a glass full of water, so that the water surface just touched the root tips. Anticipating a surprise, I went off to bed extremely excited. In the ensuing weeks, I would go stand next to my little friend talking to it, encouraging it to grow up already. It was science and maybe my motivation that propelled the baby onion which finally grew some roots on the thirteenth day. Not so unlucky after all, right? The florescent green bulbils provided me unforeseen joy. They were exquisite young wonders that rolled unto themselves like a sleeping infant. It was difficult to picture that these shoots belonged to the same plant that would often bring down cooks to tears as they managed to dice onions of all shapes and sizes for the meal being prepared.

My resolve to see this plant mature completely, had been strengthened. A few more shoots sprouted in the days that followed. It was just like seeing a small pink baby blossoming into a playful child.

I observed that the leaves kept growing taller each day. Suddenly it was time for the kid to move out. The onion had to be transplanted, for the glass did not provide enough room for the roots any longer. So we dug up a hole, a new home to be more precise. With a loving pat on the ground close by, I watered my new responsibility. I distinctly remember that sleep seemed a bit more sweeter and much deeper that night.

I made sure that I sprinkled the plant as and when required. Of course the thought of losing the plant to a fate of no water was intolerable or to another miserable prospect - watering it too much. I discovered a different elation as I watched dew drops roll off its leaves on some early morning inspections. I got busy in the upcoming examinations but never forgot to visit the onion plant.

Then one day as I retraced my way back to the garden, I saw the prettiest bud that had ever blossomed. My delight knew no bounds. That bud eventually transformed into a magnificent flower. The only disappointment was that no onions could be reaped. I suppose, the possibility of that expectation was as absurd as the expectation itself.

It has been a long time since then. The flower now rests in a cherished old book of my mum's. She had collected it before it was shed off and I am glad she did. The plant withered in the due course of time. Its remains blended into the very ground that it sprung from. The child had finally returned home. I consider myself fortunate to have become a spectator of this chronicle of a convoluted life from a distance this close.

As for the biology experiment, well, that's a whole other story.

No Words Spoken

Post examination chick-flick overdose can hamper thought processes to a precarious extent.

His eyes are a level above yours. His nose a straight slope that turns upwards slightly when he smiles his brilliant smile. A smile so shy that exposes those perfectly aligned teeth. 

His eyes have the worldly sensuousness of chocolate, and when he smiles at you, they seem to shimmer. They are gentle, almost fairy-like; enchanting like those of a gazelle and you look away. You let his eyes run over you a little. And then you come back to find them, slightly breathless. You realise that you are breathless as well, robbed off your ability to speak. Any words uttered are rendered useless; they don’t seem to make any sense. Not perfect enough for this moment.

And afterwards, you stand there alone with him, amidst the ever so slight drizzle. He puts his coat over your shoulders, forging an everlasting promise to be there for you beyond forever.

The faint fragrance of the coat envelopes you, providing you comfort and warmth, and bringing alive the memories of his soft and melodious voice.

It is in this moment that you feel alive; with him, a little taller than you, a tad expressive but no bolder than you, standing there, the innocent genius, a kind soul.

And that is how the charming conversation ends.

With no words spoken.

Mutant Ninja Mosquitoes

In the battle of blood and brawn, the one with the thirst for blood must always lose.

New Delhi has an old story that is narrated time and time again. With the ongoing changes in the weather, I suppose everyone was getting ready for the wave of sweltering heat that was to hit us in the months ahead. In this land of extremities, thanks to its strategic geographical location, Delhites get to become lab rats for an experiment so callously performed by mother nature. They say constant exposure to a stimulus eventually leads to the development of tolerance. So with wonderful food to aid us during such tumultuous times, we have become used to bearing these conditions the "Delhi way". 

While weather becomes a conversation starter in our everyday lives, we tend to ignore the evil lurking in the shadows. The evil that has evolved and developed at a rate that is "blood-curdling" more than alarming. Dear reader I am talking about these Mutant Ninja Mosquitoes or MNMs, as they will be referred to through the rest of this post.

Each morning as I open the door I expect to step into the ever so slight and pacifying breeze and to the chirping of little birdies. Instead I see a scourge of these MNMs, buzzing around as if they had been polishing their ninja moves while they waited for the enemy. Even if I were to shut the door in the tenth of a second in an effort to prevent their entry into the house, this malicious insect species would find a way to have a few of their comrades infiltrate into our territory. An almost perfect beginning to a brilliant day soiled by an army of miniature vampires.

Just like vampires, they disappear into thin air as the sun shines upon our kind like a blessing. But mind you reader, this joy does not last forever. the few moments of bliss are destroyed mercilessly when the sun subsides and the stars shine in their full glory.

Akin to the real MnMs ( the world famous candy) they may look different from the outside but deep within their diabolic frames rests the same genetic material. The DNA that makes their irritability quotient go off the charts. The DNA with the uncanny ability to make the tyrant detect blood. Even though we are very well aware of the fact that only female mosquitoes bite, I refuse to accept that they are the only ones present in our homes. The males, I presume, are no less a part of the troublemaker brigade.

These pesky attention seekers can cross boundaries incomprehensible to quench their eternal thirst.

Imagine sitting in the most comfortable position you ever sat in; doing your job, minding your own business, totally focused, at peace with yourself, almost close to achieving nirvana and ZOOM comes the horrifying buzz of an MNM. That was my plight. I waved my hands around my head like a crazed fan-girl. I switched on the mosquito repellent with the an evil grin, thinking it would be the end. Thinking it would lead to the successful elimination of the adversary, only to realize that my mini-celebration had hit rock bottom. 

I found not only one, but three more MNMs buzzing in my sacred space. The traditional swatting had lost its charm. I turned the house upside down and dug up the prized bottle of the most pungent and loathsome mosquito spray. I underwent the agony of having to stand and breathe in those noxious fumes as they worked their magic. I could no let any of these little tyrants escape.

My mission was on the brink of attaining success, naturally I was happy. But my plan was smashed to smithereens when I saw those motionless bodies revive. I had an epiphany as the buzzing of translucent wings reverberated throughout the room. This enemy just could not be beaten. A harrowing co existence was the only reality.

Once again we had been beaten by just another species of mutant ninjas.