Dedicated to a Kaleidoscope

Lucknow. A world spreading tangible sun, imaginations of a tree-house built on the widespread Neem, an openness piercing our cells, and a world of confessions and confusions. A world carrying me to the ruins of motimahal in some far-fetched coming century where the moon was breaking down in silvery powdery glitters. A world had been incomplete without someone. The city we despised in the first place, now has to be put in our memoirs. Come home. The journeys from Motimahal to Indira Canal, to Gomtinagar, or to Allahabad showed us the insights of our companionship. Different lives roll together. We see beyond our La Marts and Lohia Park for something strange and unexplainable, and with all delights. The Terabithia has been calling us.

To Terabithia...

I close my eyes. A brighter moon. We walk towards it. We wander. We meander.We traverse the path of unknown delights. Some feet desperately want to tap on the floor. The silvery is peeping from behind the trees. Every word leaves behind. A subtle touch of blue overshadows the sky. I walk on. He holds my hands. We walk on. We move on. Traffic lights get blurred. We fall back on the grass with hands in each other's. The moon reveals herself barely from behind the trees. It had never been so simple and so warm. So intoxicating. An enigma runs inside me. Another Notting Hill. A stream is crossed. A walk. A touch. We have reached the Terabithia. The stillness and fits of passion grows in me.The evening drizzles.

I open my eyes. We are walking...

I fancy again. I will wait.

Feeling unhappily bluish

This is my sixth post. Except two, all are waiting to be published. Did you feel dislocated anytime anywhere? Feeling of dislocation never leaves me. It clings to me as a child does to her mother.
Wherever I go, I carry my broken emotions of dislocation. There is something that always tells me I do not want to stay here ( "I should not" can be the nearest words); I should not work here (I believe I can do better work in a better way than these fools, but I cannot prove myself a better fool.). I remember someone's words," 'manzil' looks beautiful, appealing but the way to 'manzil' will be ugly and obnoxious". There is something that always tells me I want to go back ("go back " - where ? I could not find an answer ) ; something tells me I want to go back to my future ( as if I already exist in the future; as if it is a past nightmare I am living through once again. Future is some delightful moments conceived by my imagination). Something always tells me I hate the people around and I should go to a better place with a hope of meeting better people (eventually I fail, as always, and I find same faces all around) ; something tells me I want to go home, to my room for a fresh breath of air through my window ( But I do not want to go back to Calcutta. Yet I long for the day when I will be together with my parents) . I hate the smell that arises from the hair (from oily, sticky hair that hasn't been washed for months probably) of "nobody(ies)" standing, sitting beside you in the bus. The men try to make their penis touch softly somebody's arm, somebody's shoulder ; make their sweating backs feel somebody's breasts. I often observe these when I do not have a book to spend my strange journey twice a day.

Sometime, once in a while, I want to sleep under a partially cloudy breezy night sky. It takes me away from the crazy, uncouth and confused facets to seek peace within myself (even for some moments) .





P.S. Did I sound frustating? I did not want to. I think it should not matter as long as I can put across my thoughts ; as long as it does not become an issue of displeasure for my readers (I hope that hasn't happened either).

blue rain touches my window

Dec 19, I last posted. It has been really long. Where was I lost? Sometimes I keep tracking thoughts. Thoughts that are lost over the grasses, behind the sunrise, in the epicenter of an earthquake or a second before a kiss ends. I realized I no longer belong to any community of following a particular path. I am drawn towards a continuum state of being completely lost with faltering words and blurring images, and again recovering out of nowhere. For a moment, it is chaos and madness running through my mind. I loathe the stagnant character of myself. It does not make me feel fulfilled. My graph is an extent of incredibly up and awfully down. My nest is vulnerable; my words fail me. I emerge out of nihilism. My eternal search for a glimpse of moon from my window leaves me desperate. I long to come back home. The street bulbs at nights create a non-tangible, enchanting shadow of the plants on the curtain; my lovable dark room comes alive. My childhood memories flash by. They were left unattended, abandoned in the balcony for years. May. Summer. The birds have flown into cold countries. They will forget the path of return. My memories will remain fragmentary.

My tales always remain unfinished. The rain is washed blue with care. Kalbaishaki happens every now and then. I traverse the path of unknown territories. My feet pause in the moments of longing and loneliness. Impulses run through. My road traces lanes, streets and sudden ends. Once in a while, my feet cross dungeon. I give birth to an array of running street lamps. My madness provides solace to my isolation. I get up. I walk on the road side of the highways.