Hanging Up

I don't know why the title makes me think of scenes from disaster movies like 2012 and Vertical Limit. Jerking spiders with crooked legs, dangling off threads of silk. And for some reason, a doe-eyed student with thin, Voldemort-like fingers.

What do I say to that? The dry spell is inexplicable. And anyway, I find myself explaining too much these days. My address, my career, my weight, my food habits, my generation, my hairstyle, my wardrobe, my silence, somebody else's words, my absence, my affinity towards my neighbours, my fevers, my redness, my blacks, my lights, my journeys, my Facebook status messages, my irregularities, my strangeness, my familiarities.

My need to stop.

My need NOT to.

All in the name of impact.

And this, when I'm in between two trips to the same place. Sonapani.. one. Sonapani.. two. Someone's counting the milestones on my road to boredom.

A brief spurt of activity inside. Me with my curls. Twists and turns. Poker-faced, I do my job. I make meaning, even with my eyes closed. Dreaming.

People. People. People.

Is that all there is to it?

Why Love is Blind

A professor once told me that there are two ways in which you can interview someone.. as a miner digging deep in search of facts and truths and lies and as a traveller, floating by, in search of a story.. nothing else.

I used to think there's a bifurcation possible; that one can be either of the two and that one MUST choose.

But I think it's really 'me' vs. 'everyone else' now. When I tell my own story, I flow. I create. I remember what I need to and want to and forget all the rest. I travel without a map or a planner. I travel for the sake of travelling, illuminating each and every corner of my being.

But when I listen to another, I feel like I'm stretching. I don't know that topography. I don't know the weather there. And I want to be safe. So I ask questions that have 'right' and 'wrong' answers. In other words, I find excuses for not travelling.

I'm both a miner and a traveller. What you bring out in me depends on how I see you, therefore.

It's a bit like the Sun and the Moon really.

At night, you don't mind travelling to the realms of the impossible. Dreaming. Believing. Taking leaps of faith.

But it's daylight that exhausts you. You open your eyes. You begin to see the loopholes. The crevices. The obstacles. The 'not-worth-it's. Suddenly, everything has a name. They catch you red-handed because the light shines and they KNOW it's you.. they KNOW it's red. And they THINK they know what it means. Yes, memories of the night hiss below the surface as they let the past interfere with the present.

What would you not do to be sure?

Maybe. Perhaps. Wonderful, wonderful words.

Why do you want to see everything? What about the sense of touch? Why can't you feel?

What If God Were One Of Us?

They named her after Durga, the Goddess with ten hands and a reputation that makes her uniquely Bong, or so I believe.

There's something distinctly hazel about how she makes me feel as I walk into the classroom. It's a bit like her hair and her eyes could very well have been black, but she holds them back.. so much so that they fade to brown. Uncertain whether to declare themselves.

Her earrings make me nervous. Rings, that remind me of my childhood.

Thin rings of gold which glitter in the afternoon sun and threaten with how pure she claims to be.

I used to think she's stuffy and organised to a fault. I used to wish she left her seat more, danced more, ran and never stopped. That was before I came to know about the divorce.

Blink and miss. A quiet end to her surname on those immaculate, laminated brown paper covers.

I could think that it's rude of her to sternly push away a classmate who wanted to ask me a question (about how Sports transformed Jesse Owens' life).. just because she had got to me first.

I could scold her or make a moral out of the episode and bore her to death.

I chose to laugh instead. So that I'm with her, on her wavelength.

And so that she laughs too.

Man. Machine. Madness.

When a book costs you less than 50 rupees, you better believe that it's a classic. And a portal through time missed by the bungee-jumping yahoos all around you, ironically.

The other day I picked up 3 beauties inside the campus:

1. "Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy" by David D. Burns, M.D.

2. "The Perfect Vehicle: What is it about Motorcycles?" by Melissa Holbrook Pierson

3. "Theory Z: How American Business can meet The Japanese Challenge" by William G. Ouchi

Walking back home, three words cropped up in my consciousness as I trudged along, panting.

"Man. Machine. Madness."

I liked their rhythm. They compensated the lack of soundtrack music quite well. And for a moment I forgave Hans Zimmer for not winning a Golden Globe this year for Inception in the "original score" category, despite tracks like "Time".

But that's not the point. 3 books. 3 words. Which is which?

You'd think I wouldn't begin reading if this wasn't sorted out. :)

Strange how my fingers solved it for me. It doesn't get better than Motorcycles. Because, like the author says, if you're travelling at that speed on a Motorcycle, you want to be seen.

Celebrating Darkness

A travelling womb. Hysteria. The fear that this thing between you and me is a mirror. Acquiring. Losing. Sending messages to a mobile phone that chooses to be switched off. Hiding when people aren't seeking you. Trying to find words that hack away at this silence all around us and within us. Two stories. Intertwined. Parallel. The snail and the bird. A patchwork. Tomorrow, the colours might change their names. Their significance. Turn on the lights. Turn off the lights. Over and over and over again. Let it burn out.

Bum Buttery Flit Fluttery

Seriously. I mean there's apparently something known as "The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain." I don't think the ukulele is a British instrument. Or maybe the name isn't British but the instrument is masquerading in Britain as something else.

Anyway, it's not bad when you play Greek stuff on it.

Youtube throws up a track called "Misirlou" when you run a search. Apparently it's good for a Jewish wedding as well as for belly dancing.

(Although I think my ears are hot mainly because of the untimely white rum. French Toast in white rum. Not a bad prescription when the mercury jammed at 3.7 and dipped no further. Uncomfortably, uncomfortably numb.)

You know I finally figured out why I don't like getting photographed.

I'd much rather be a bird in the "loverly spring" and fly away. Not a parachute that has to float down.

A photograph doesn't let you travel. Or scratch your itch.

Did I Hide Too Well?

The Nokia Xpressmusic Mobile Handset jars my senses. I am blocking friends on Facebook. I'm too scared to close my eyes. Feelings lurk behind the paintings in art galleries. They don't speak to me any more. I have been pretending that I have Writer's Block. Everytime my mobile stirs, I hold my breath. I don't want to walk. I don't want to climb. I don't want to shout. I can barely speak.

I don't want to go to a gym anymore. I got my hair straightened. I can cook you a meal. My hands are soft again.

I'm a girl. I'm a girl. I'm a girl.

I can learn.

I can try.

You can teach me.

I'll watch you play. I just asked the score. That's all.

I'll hold on. I'll work on the brakes. I'll smile, not just inside. I promise to bleed when you cut me. I lent you my silence. Please don't give it back.

We're neighbours. In my mind.

I'm sorry I closed the door.

I'm sorry.

We were like Mark and Callie, remember?