Always

Our love was to be misconstrued,

Too Difficult for the world to comprehend,

That two souls consumed with passion,

Don’t always find a home,

In the solace of the other’s arms.

Some kinds of love,

Exist in that nebulous space,

Where galaxies explode and stars collide,

Where ancient worlds give way to the new,

Neither in the dark nor in the light,

But somewhere on a spectrum of luscious grey.

His love was jaw-droppingly,

Achingly,

Beautiful.

Like the gentle glow of the rising sun,

Like the delicate shimmer of a starry sky.

His love didn’t grow of ego,

Not nourished by conquests,

Or the narcotic power of display.

His was a silent nourishment,

Brewed with grace and resilience.

His love was expansive,

Glorious like the sun

In his amber glow,

I bloomed,

As he embraced my delicate

Fragrance,

Treading the lands in his majestic purple coat

His love did not posses,

But set me free,

And so it goes that

Although miles apart,

He holds in his palm,

My pulsing female heart.

Advertisements

Listen

Bap bap bap da,
Pumping rhythm of my heart.
Ebbs and valleys,
Canyons and cliffs,
Blood coursing through,
The topography of veins.

Bap Bap Bap da
Bulging arteries,
Fueled by desire,
Draw deep red,
Filling with colour,
Pale landscapes of cells.

Bap Bap Bap Da,
Microscopic endeavours
Of thumping life,
Relish the vicious churning,
Blotches of pain,
Splashes of delight.

Bap Bap Bap Da,
Deafening beats?
A soothing balm?
Step close to hear,
An ancient paen,
The aching music of my soul,

Zentangle Zone

Thanks to an opportune and thoroughly blissful trip to Nepal a few months back, I now am collaborating with a beautiful boutique designer to launch my own brand of stationary. Here’s a sneak peek into some of the designs we’ll be using as part of the “Anoma Collection”

 

Cafe By The Sea

Let’s catch up you and I,
Over spiced tea for two,
We’ll dip our dreams in rainbow dye,
And devour petite macaroons.
 
We’ll pick a charming cafe,
That one by the sea,
With the cozy terraced sit -out,
Where our hearts once roamed free. 
 
You’ll ask me how I’m doing,
How it feels to be newly- wed.
I’ll smile and let the silence seep,
So you may draw out the unsaid.
 
You’ll say I look different,
And I’ll pretend to enquire,
Knowing that wicks change,
Once you put out the fire.
 
Sugar cubes will gleam like ingots
As you twirl them to a song,
You’ll conjure our next adventure,
 I’ll giggle and wonder along.
 
You’ll speak of life’s monotony,
And I’ll colourfully disagree,
We’ll tug and tease and pull with words,
We’ll laugh at our naivety.
 
You’ll stretch your feet on a nearby chair,
While I tap my heels on the floor.
We’ll gaze into the cerulean,
And just be us once more.

 

amalfiviews_hotelpasitea

 

Scribbles, Doodles and Sounds

As I sit here in my living room, watching pregnant clouds being scraped by distant mountain peaks, I’m reminded of a day in Scotland, when I was drenched to my bones by an errant passing cumulonimbus. It was symbolic for I was returning from  a meditative hour by a secret pond and had stumbled on a few realisations. Nothing profound, on the contrary they were revelations quite simple and obvious. Just that they had been shrouded in anxiety and needed the gentle hand of mother nature to be pulled out. Lying on my couch today, I’m prompted to look for the journal entry of that lovely walk to the pond. Diary found, I flip through the pages urgently trying to locate the necessary parchment. I rarely date my entries, partly because I’m lazy, partly because I don’t write chronologically or regularly but mostly because time is irrelevant. Once words are brought into creation, they remain there for eternity, where time loses meaning.

Anyway I finally find the page. It’s tainted with my characteristic colorful inking, an-attempt-to-be -artistic doodling and barely legible writing. However, the top half of this page was also  written in reverse, or in mirror-writing, as if aptly to reflect the state of mind then. Reverse writing something I indulge in from time to time, just to amuse myself and to flex the visual cortex. I discovered a few years back that I could write backwards, so I’ve since then been working to move it from caveman scribbles to a more legible running hand. All you have to do to decode it, is show my writing to a mirror or to the selfie-mode of your smartphone. It’s proved very entertaining for coded journal entries and the occasional unrequited love letters 😉

If you feel curious enough, try it out on a mirror or phone. If not I’ve written the “straight” form below the image.

FullSizeRender (3)

Today I stepped out for a walk and by the end my soul had expanded a few inches. There’s no better cure I’ve found for my agitated mind, than an immediate long saunter. It must be aimless for it to be effective. No time restrictions either, just the mindful act of placing one foot ahead of the other, letting go of control over pacing while non-judgementally observing what comes up in the mind. Conscious walking supported by conscious watching and slowly the restlessness settles, the tightness in my chest relaxes and what remains is insight. Today walking lead me to a magical pond and these floating words….

Here’s an audio capture of the sounds at the pond. If you listen closely enough the pond might even speak to you.

Songs of Myself

Yesterday we were completely snowed in!!!  A perfect day for doing things I love. Obviously, I called up my friend for all weathers- Sharanya , picked up my guitar and had mad fun recording a duet! It’s a beautiful composition from the movie Lootera. We tried our best and would love your feedback:)

Manmarziyaan from Lootera. .

The one pager

Wonder where this story will go….

The door rattled as the wind gushed in through gaps, knocking over the mud pot and strewing lavender buds all over the floor. Sitara swiftly grabbed her broom and swept up the pale purple dust. Her forehead scrunched, pondering this unnecessary delay, Sitara clutched her sari’s patterned end and hurried to the kitchen to resume grating the last batch of coconuts. The soft glow of the early morning sun streamed in through the windows of the stone-hut, lighting up dust particles and lending golden halos to the only pieces of furniture-a wooden cot, a low table and shelf lined with sparkling curios. Amber beams bounced off the crystal wind-chime casting circles of burgundy and pale blue over the white-washed walls.

Sitara peeked out of her kitchen window as she mixed the coconut shavings with jaggery. The valley was still asleep, covered in a blanket of dewy mist, oblivious to the echoing calls of rising birds. The Djinn had advised that she make her offering at the temple before the sun reached up high in the sky. It was a long trek, so she had to leave now. Sitara deftly wrapped the flax-coloured, sweet mixture in an old newspaper and carefully placed it in an embroidered pouch dangling from her waist.

Her house locked, Sitara began walking up the rusty trail to the highway, her sinewy fingers clutching the chain around her neck. A coin-sized turquoise stone embraced by a thin strip of ornate silver hung unassumingly, from a black thread. An old mendicant, one of many travellers that paid homage to Sitara’s hill-side antique shop, had given it to her in exchange for money. She had negotiated the price well but had not bargained for the changes in her life that followed. Three purposeful gentle strokes and the Djinn could be summoned, she accidentally discovered. As smoke and fire he appeared, just as last night, and crackled “From the ancient flames that forged new worlds, I am the Djinn of Agni.”

Sitara reached the highway to discover it was cordoned off. A bus was balancing perilously at the edge of the cliff and village-folk were using ropes to pull the vehicle and its frightened passengers to safety. It would be hours before the road opened up. She would now have to walk the serpentine, secluded path through the woods. This was not a good omen.