The elusive hitchhiker

Love.

What's this often elusive emotion?

Is it that extraordinarily rare champagne? Or, is it that ordinary kadak chai you have everyday at a local tapri?

And in walks this feel... This unrequited love! Boy, doesn't it take the cake always?

The broken heart and the violin fall in love among pailful tears held back behind the welled up eyes.

The sore, croaky throats. The grey, gloomy skies. 

Wake up, sleep.

Boredom seeps in through every crevice on your skin, every crack of your breath.

You hear sirens wailing around. Sodium vapor lamps substitute daylights.

And like a car running on reserve, you trudge along. Till you devour the last drop of fuel.

Or, w/till you find a hitchhiker, who'll complete your journey?.

Boroline on my scars

We're eclectic partners in a heist!
Like knitted shirts among wrinkle-frees.

You're a supernova to my dark energy.
You're the boiling blood to my cold fire.

You're the wildflower to my wastelands.

You're the Ghalib to my Gibran.

You're a fairy-tale to my tragedy.
You're the bonfire to my burnt mud.

On Intensity

"Intensity of love is similar in experience to devotion to that supreme power. Not in surrender but in knowing oneness. 

It also has an aching, a longing to have darshan of that other, to be with the other as much as possible. It's similar to the feeling of wanting to come back home no matter where you travel.

Thus, we experience dwaita and adwaita at the same time. In knowing this, we attain peace. Peaceful love."

She asked: "Why not surrender?"

"In surrender too, we experience two. I and the other. In oneness, both dissolves into the same ocean. Like two cells merging into a new one."

Healing with Hurt

Music moves us all. Even those that are deaf and blind. And they say, music has no language but we're not perfect humans. 

I am not. 

I was always biased towards Hindustani music, ghazals, and old film songs in Hindi, Malayalam, and to a certain extent, Tamil.

All that changed. One night with Varsha... Her choice of English songs and Western music is just like her passion in culinary skills, teaching, sketching, painting, and writing. Her versatility and range of music kind of covers an entire universe of artistes I never knew about. 

It all started with few questions like "Who are your top 5 singers in each genre and language?' and ended up with me loving Hurt by Johnny Cash. 

What a voice, what a feel... This is my new anthem. This is similar to all the Suzannes, River of Dreams, Bob Dylan, ghazals, and Bawra mann put together!

Listening together to world music, soft rock, and hard rock, with her pillow close to yours is something that I should've done long ago. Well, here's to more such musical and enlightening nights with my greatest love...

Just two blinks

No personal milestone of mine has reached the annals of this blog but you and I deserve a place here. For, this is where my life and love explodes and implodes simultaneously.

Two years is certainly a short time in the history of marriages and anniversaries. Nothing BIG most would say. And I agree. 

Nothing is BIG enough to come between us.

But we know that the years we spend together and the sense of time we feel don't matter in the end. 

It's the intensity that matters. And we know that these two years were the most intense period of our lives... We went through the roller coaster ride that took our collective breath away...

We loved everything the world threw upon us, we loved everything we threw ourselves upon! We witnessed new lives being born while few deaths were encountered too. We won some, and we lost some.

We understood and accepted each other along with each other's tiniest and tidiest quirks, idiosyncrasies, eccentricities, OCDs, and what not! With tender love and care. 

Your colors and paints made love with my words and dreams. Together, they became our greatest muses. They intertwined and formed our fantasy-filled world. 

That world where magic is normal. Where magic unfolds and blooms when you open your kohl-lined eyes to doodle and paint the canvas of our lives... Where my love for ghazals and your passion for world music spend evenings intoxicated in each other's rhythm.

That beautiful world where all your loves and all my loves became our common loves. And we nonchalantly look at so many staring wonder struck at our Utopian marriage where there are no masks, no pretenses, and no secrets. A marriage that would've made him proud! 

Us... A companionship like none other. Almost otherworldly for mere mortals... A companionship where your painting fuels my words and my words give you courage. A companionship built upon conversations and healthy debates that rival Quora and Facebook combined! A simple relationship where our gods and demons sleep peacefully side by side... 

A companionship where we witness other marriages crumble due to lies, or crack due to untold truths, or hold on to masks of happiness that veil years of sorrow, regret, what ifs, secret affairs, and what not. 

My love, you complete me and I include you. Our yin and yang complete and complement our cycles of love, life, and longings. 

But I am afraid on this day... Very afraid. Afraid not whether my words have failed me but have I failed my words!?

An epitaph on Devraj... Mortal words from a candle to the sun

Devraj is no more. In his physical body. Rather, I would confidently proclaim, he attained his samadhi in Thiruvannamalai.

Thiruvannamalai… That place where words are never enough. They make no sense in front of the silent sage’s ashram; they’re not needed in front of the majestic mountain.

Ever since I stepped on this sacred soil way back in 2005, I have had the privilege to meet with few souls, who’re truly blessed.

Prasadji, Devraj, and Swamiji are three interesting characters, quirky and enlightened in their own ways, I guess. While Swamiji appeals to your seeking intellect and Prasadji appeals to your whimsical, musical, loving heart, it was Devraj, who touched your soul directly with his measured words, with his loud silences.

A nondescript man always shabbily dressed in a four-pocket shirt and dirty ochre-colored mundu with a jhola slung over his shoulder, he was the seeker I thought I’ll become. I may someday, if I am also as blessed as him.

Here was a taxi driver from Toronto who spent six months in Toronto and six months in Thiruvannamalai ever since he stood astounded at Ramana Ashram in 1974.

“I had a lot of questions when I came here first. Then, one by one, each question melted away… You have made plans? Well, let’s see you know! For you have your plans and then there is always a master plan…”

His words will echo throughout my path of seeking.  

Devraj was the first person Prasadji introduced me to in Thiruvannamalai way back in 2009 when I met the former at the Ashram bookstore. Devraj was instrumental in reintroducing Prasadji’s son to him after they had lost touch with each other for a long time.

Theirs was a friendship to treasure… Devraj will always get a packet of milk and tell Prasadji to make tea. They’ll rant about each other but equally care for the other a lot.

Devraj was an ideal sadhak. During the earlier years of knowing him, he would easily circumambulate the hill twice on the same day! That’s a 28 km tiring walk for a diabetic with overgrown toenails! During the later years, he switched to a simple moped as his legs started giving up on him. But, till the last day he lived, he would’ve fed all the stray cows, monkeys, and dogs along girivalam before having a morsel of food himself!

People like him are not born anymore.

He would never stay overnight anywhere if he must leave Thiruvannamalai! He’ll take the night bus both ways either to Chennai or Bangalore from Thiruvannamalai and return to his ‘home’ the very next day. In his earlier years, every time he had to leave for Toronto to stay there for six months before he could return, he used to fill a 10-liter can of water from Skanda Ashram and carry that as check-in luggage! He used to mix that water with the drinking water in Toronto before quenching his thirst! He made sure those 10 liters lasted those six months!

Towards the last couple of years before his passing away, he used to travel to goshalas in Bangalore and Chennai to spend a night and take care of the cows there. Such was his devotion, his compassion for all.

It’s a day of mixed emotions and feelings all blended and beat inside my mind’s grinder.

In the usual way, I am saddened as he’s left a void that none can fill. I no longer can hear that voice over the phone asking me, “Are you in the Ashram? Okay! I’ll see you there in sometime!”

But, in a weird way, I am happy to know that he attained samadhi near his home, his beloved mountain.

You’ll always be a lighthouse in my life, Devraj.

My journey of seeking got its biggest boost from having met you, known you, and spending a lot of my confused moments with you in silence and in conversation.

May your light continue to light my path and those of others, who were blessed with your love and compassion.

Aksar, ek chai par...

Aksar akele chai bana leta hun mein,

Kabhi akele baith jaata hun mein,

Auro ki yaad aksar kar bhi leta hun mein,

Par sirf tumse milne ki asha rakhta hun mein.

Yunhi aksar chai bana leta hun mein.

Humare haath mein kuch lakheeren nahin,

Humare neend mein koi sukoon nahin,

Humare raat mein thodisi chandniwaali baat nahin.

Humare hazaaron khwahishon mein ek bhi fariyaad nahin.

A broken record

Uske dhadakte dil mein 

Kisike dastak ka intezaar liye,

Phir gaya woh kisi aur ke ghar,

Phir ek baar dastak dene.

A black Innova sped across the Chennai citylights amidst flashing red and blue lights on police Innovas! KK croons Pyar ke Pal on 91.9. In that sacred space, Urdu blended with Hindi and touched his skin mixed with the aircon air.

Kisi aur ka dard apna ke,

Apno se mooh chupake,

Cinema ke sang roya woh.

Off late, life has been strange. I mean it was never a stranger. But yeah, it was certainly stranger than before. It beat him down and when he was a bit broken, it took him in its arms and loved him.

Ek marmik si katha hain uski,

Thodi poignant thi, 

Kahin thodisi poetry tooti hui si!

Kahin bachpan se uske khaas dost ki khaas khilone se judi si!

A feeble attempt at translating the above Hindi portions below; hamari yeh ek aur gustakhi maaf kar dena…

In his beating heart, 

Awaiting someone's knock, 

Again, he went to somebody else's house,

To knock at the door once again.

Facing someone else's pain,

Turning his face away from his own (kith and kin),

He cried along with cinema.

A poignant story is his,

A bit poignant, of course, 

Somewhere a bit of poetry broken apart,

Somewhere joined with his childhood's favorite friend's favorite toy, maybe!

Let's talk

I can talk to you

About...

The shape of a song,

The tail of a cloud,

The faces we lust for,

The hearts we love much,

The bodies that move us,

The dances we burst into.

You can talk to me
About...

Unseen glances,

Mute noises,

Loud silences,

Open doors,

Shut windows,

Silhouette loves.

I can talk to you

About...

Moving vignettes,

Shared showers,
Wordless goodbyes,
Yesterday's movies,

Tomorrow's releases,

Weathered whispers.

You can talk to me
About...

Lifeless shares,

Facebook likes, 

Lazier comments,

Notification tones,

Blue tricks,

Costly comments.

Let's talk

About...

A period in: 

A sentence, 

A woman 

in a sentence.

But, who'll talk 

About...

Her sentence even before a period?

POV: A bullet shot from a gun

I rush out
To live
My milliseconds of fame.

From the Mahatma to the Hitler,
I do my job well.
Well, almost well.

Without consent, without hesitation,
Without a sweat, without trepidation.

I travel my ballistic trajectory. 

Alone.

I don't judge. I don't worship.
I kill.

Character Sketch Series – Mahabharata: Yudhishthira (My Favorite)

Most people, who I know have read Jaya/Mahabharata or watched the mega serial on TV. It’s truly an epic of humongous proportions comprising plots and subplots with myriad array of characters and character arcs, which is still unparalleled in scope and depth.

Most folks have their favorites. I have heard the following roll call when it comes to the most common favorite characters: Krishna, Karna, Arjuna, Bhima, Bhishma, Draupadi, Abhimanyu, and even Duryodhana!

But, never have I heard someone say that Yudhishthira is his or her favorite character. I always used to wonder why. 

I know the reasons for most people to hate him… The gambling episode and especially, losing his wife, Draupadi, after betting away his four brothers!

IMHO (In my humble opinion)

He’s my favorite though. Actually, he’s the first among equals for me because I also love Krishna, Karna (the most tragic character ever created in an epic), Bhishma, and Draupadi.

Yudhishthira’s fighting qualities were nothing to brag about unlike his younger and mightier brothers and his elder brother! He was good at using spears and I guess, that’s about it. Not too masculine, neither wily nor cunning or shrewd. He wasn’t a worldly man either. 

He was, according to me, the man on the middle path. His greatest strength was his honesty. He never lied. Ever. Not even once and that takes courage. More courage than you can even begin to imagine. He had no worries or secrets to himself.

The dice game
Even before the ill-fated and often debated game of dice, Yudhishthira had tried every trick of diplomacy with Duryodhana but in vain. He had even pleaded Duryodhana to handover a village for each Pandava but even that was rejected.

He finally gives in to the decision of playing dice to avert the war. Also, he never thinks that the Kauravas will defeat Pandavas in the game through deceit.

Yaksha Prashna
During their exile, Yudhishthira was the only one, who could answer the Yaksha Prashna among all the Pandavas. After satisfactorily answering the Yaksha’s questions, he brings all of them back to life.

Role in the war

He was always on the side of Dharma. So much so that even when Krishna, Pandavas’ best friend and advisor, told him to lie about Ashwathamma’s death, he declined. Only when an elephant by the name Ashwathamma died, he proclaimed that Ashwathamma died. In fact, he actually mentioned, “Ashwathamma, the elephant died!” but the qualifiers were droned out in the battle noise.

Arjuna had confusions regarding his role as a warrior while fighting his relatives. Bhima was fighting to take revenge and fulfill his vows given to Draupadi. Nakul and Sahadev were following orders from the elder brother. Though Sahadev was the wisest of all the brothers, he was silent. Karna was in the war as he could never leave Duryodhana’s side and valued their friendship more than anything else.

Yudhishthira was the only one fighting on the battlefield for Dharma’s sake. Of course, so was Krishna but he taken a vow of not fighting directly in the war (Though later he bent and broke those rules is a matter for another blog post altogether!).

If ever there was a man, who always stood for ethics no matter what dilemmas he had to face, he was such a man...

The one who stood true to his name, no matter whether the war was physical or metaphysical in nature...

Disclaimer: This is the first of a series of brief character sketches I’ll be writing on my favorite characters of the Mahabharata. Yudhishthira’s character sketch written here is by no means a conclusion.

I do expect comments from serious readers, especially on the gambling episode. You’re more than welcome. Let’s engage in a healthy debate.

Change

I have seen:

People change.

Times change. 

Wounds change. 

The kind of time and the kindness of wound(s)...
Change the change.

What dreams may come…

This is the stuff dreams should be made of.

He sees her from an old rickety bus window. This is in front of some monument’s garden most likely in Delhi! She looks every bit of an activist, she always wanted to be.

He is shell shocked. This thought passes through his mind, “She had left me without a trace. Like a rogue CIA agent, who defected or vanished into thin air in those Hollywood spy movies!”

He gets down from the slow-moving bus in slow motion.

She sees him too and her face radiates a joy he’s never seen on a woman’s face. Never read in a book. Never seen in any movie. That made his day.

His eyes well up and he cries. She runs to him, holds his hand, and they hail a taxi.

She still speaks in that Rekha Bharadwajesque voice of hers. Her Bengali devi face still adorns a big bindi.

Everywhere they go, for some reason, a Kishore Kumar song is being played. Like akashvani, like background music in the movies… They try to figure out the source of that music but in vain!

With her mouthful of a golgappa, she asks him, “What do you want?”

He replies, “Still the same. Spend my life with you. And this time, don’t you dare leave me and go.” He adds hurriedly, “Hey, how’s Jahnavi? I bet she won’t recognize me… I still remember her saying over the phone, ‘Abhi, come fast to the temple! Okay?’”

She answers excitedly, “She’s almost seventeen!”

He’s stunned, “Wow, so much time has passed!?”

She laughs. He laughs too. But, now, there’s an echo…

My room is dark. There’s a bit of twilight seeping in. The Fitbit shows time to be 6:15 am. I think I know the source of this dream; I watched The Words on &Prive HD yesternight. And, am glad I did.

I wake up and write this.

It’s been a long time, right?

Cheesy love

If only wishes were horses, I would’ve ridden the whitest of clouds to rain on you. With my heart as my only steed. 

If only I could make love to you without using words as my crutches. If only you knew that online is my favorite word when I see it below your name.

Well, come inside.

For inside me, is a place that I call home. A place that’s neither heaven nor Earth. This home has a morning rainbow outside our bedroom window. From our porch, you can watch golden clouds that rain cheesy love sandwiches for breakfast. Out near the horizon, on vast meadows, we sow our love to bear fruits in summertime.

So, please don’t sleep. Not yet, my darling. For when you sleep, my words feel drowsy too. 

Then, they want to be:

• The stars you see in your dreams
• That sound you utter… When you wake up… They want to moisten your thin lips.
• The lyrics of your favorite songs when you sing
• And, the silences in between.

Let it flow

Even if I am in a state where I am schizophrenic, I'll be loving you. 

So let it flow. Let love flow.

Today and tonight. 
Midnight and mid-day. 

Let it flow with each pulse. 
From my palm to your wrist. 

From me to you, who I've been in love with 
All this while 
While you've been elsewhere 
In your own heaven and hell 
And Earth in between.

When our love's lake was frozen still
I bloomed as your lotus 
With my leaves detached from your water.

May I say that I miss you? At times?

Imprisoners of time that we are... 
Few more moments with you won't hurt
Neither you, neither me, nor my love.

Can love be so liberating yet tied up? Together?

Will it always be you in me and me in you? 
Afar?

Please hold my hand as I close my eyes 
And take my last breath
My last sip
My last dip in the holy river.

Don't worry, 'cause I'll die soon in your arms. 
My body will be
Carried away on this hammock of our dreams.

Not a day goes by 
Without you haunting my mindspace and heartscape
Without you knocking me down. 

Not a night goes by 
That I don't feel your moist skin,
Your warm touch,
Your deep sighs. 

Not a morning comes by 
Without me wishing...
For your love,
Mysterious like you but eccentric like me.

Maana ke hum yaar nahin...

Every once in a while, a song hums into your life and takes your breath away. Previously, I had fallen in love with Baawra mann and Dil toh bachha hain jii...

Those songs were and are a significant part of my life. Baawra mann, in fact, has become an anthem of sorts.

Last week, I saw this hidden gem of an unknown movie titled Meri Pyaari Bindu. Very filmy, very narrative, and yet, very poignant. 

The movie slowly but surely grew into my psyche and established a personal space there; mind you, it's not a great film by any standards but it had something that involved me. 

Maybe the story was very relatable and, in parts, it was very predictable too. In spite of a very badly characterized female lead, the movie held its own.

The song. Well, the song. Is it just that? 

It made me want to walk in the rain with her. Holding her hands and stealing glances every once in a while... 

This song is an ode... 

To all that was possible. 
To a mysterious smile, which only the observing heart catches. 
To paths that were left incomplete. 
To love unrequited. 
To the field beyond right and wrong. 
To the crevices and cracks where it lies wounded and curled up. Like a cat.
To the only kind of love that lasts. Outlasts life itself. 
To the yearning and pain that takes the taste out of tea, the bite out of coffee, and the fragrance out of a flower.

To pasts real and imagined... And to that surreal boundary where they meet.:-)

Peanut and Pixie

We are not all beautiful.
We are not all ugly.
Each one of us simply is.

Lao Tzu had pondered over this long ago as did I on that fateful night. If everyone is beautiful, what is ugliness?

Well, Cookie had just given birth to Peanut and Pixie. 

Osho, the noble, proud, and caring father of the two, was watching me handle the two just-born kittens with shivering hands.

Nihilism and all other isms took a back seat in my train of thoughts. That moment in time, when I held them. Close to my chest and deep in my palms. Like an old, long lost lover, who you still hold on to for your dear life. 

Their closed eyes, shivering bodies, small and soft nails, and swaying gait made way for a whole set of new meanings that life offers. 

I realized that miracles aren't made; they're born every day. 

New life when it kicks in in any form is something that you can't explain with words. But a certain word made sense to me that day: Spectacular.

The insignificance of all our lives on this planet and elsewhere in the Universe didn't matter. All that mattered are the two new lives, who entered our lives that night. 

Since that day, the songs have stopped, the music is milder; all we want to hear are kitten noises even in our much deprived sleep.

Stillness

The hill looks like any other hill. But just like today, it has beckoned millions to it since time immemorial. Mahatmas and siddhars and maharishis and seekers and sinners et al.

The Ramana Parayana that starts after the abhishekam and aarti breaks the enforced silence and self-imposed silences in the samadhi hall. Every once in a while, you could hear an air horn from a rickety, rusty bus. Or a peacock crows. The breeze is still but brings a waft of camphor and sambrani in distinct waves.

Ramana's piercing eyes stare at you from all four walls and like many others felt, you still feel his presence here long after his samadhi on April 14, 1950. 

Behind the samadhi and the ashram, the hill looms as a great answer to all seekers of truth. Covered by low-hanging, rain-carrying clouds, its peak is invisible. Night dawns; lakhs of devotees circumambulate Arunachala during the full moonlit night...

Close your eyes and just sit. Chumma iri. Be as you are.

The aroma of mysticism and esoteric faith combine to give you a headiness at Virupaksha cave. If you're entitled, you may hear Aum vibrating all around you.

Just outside the ashram, bohemians, backpackers, and sadhus share tales and tea and lives. While cattle, dogs, monkeys, and peacocks are fed by few kind folks like Devraj, I sit and try to be still. 

Still, I am not still.

This was actually written in October 2016 but posted only now. :-)

Kahin door jab din dhal jaaye

"Are you her chosen one?" he asked himself. 

Long into the night, as he tossed and turned through yet another sleepless night, he pondered upon his eternal question, "Are you a victim of circumstances? Of life? Of ras leela?" 

"Are you blessed by just arriving at the right time at the right place? 
Or, are you cursed by arriving at the wrong time at the wrong place?"

Silence. 

Just then his refrigerator's compressor kicked on.

"Do you deserve to be where you are now? 
Do you deserve the role(s) you play? 
Is your role sustained due to fear? 
Are you irreplaceable? 
Are you just her 'also love'? 
Or, are you her passion for life?"

More silence.

"Are you just another throw of dice in this random universe? Are you the method in this madness? Are you the order in this chaos?" he asked himself. 

Deafening silence.

Finding no answers, he burned inside. Nothing could quench his thirst. Nothing could deliver him peace. Nothing could deliver him what he seeks though he seeks what others have sought before and attained.

If he wasn't the one, shouldn't he leave? Make way for love to bloom as it should? Is he an obstruction that only he can destroy?

Shouldn't he make way for two souls who yearn for each other?
Why is he just a witness in his own love story? 
Why did he expect her to say: 
"No matter what, I would've always chosen you."?

He switches on the TV and surfs. There is nothing better to do. His mind hums and drums. He listens to old classics on the Mastii channel; one of his favorite songs is on: "Chalo ek baar phir se... Ajnabi ban jaye hum dono..."

He watches and listens to few more songs. Songs that bring about associations of the past.  

Meanwhile, over her wallpapered doe-eyes on his cracked Home and Lock screen, his Asus zenphone screams, "It's 1 am. Go to sleep. Try at least. There's work tomorrow." He craves for a vada pav. He smiles and brushes away that impossible wish.

Loud silence. 

A train's horn breaks it, as he lies down again. He looks at the pillow she left behind, as he breaks into a cold sweat. He sniffs her pillow and that kurti she had left upon her stuffed toy dog. They still smell of her perspiration's odor mixed with her deodorant's scent. Always a heady mix for him. A dog barks in the orchard adjacent to his building's compound. Few more join in the howling party. 

He had barely slept a wink when he heard a neighbor washing clothes in the balcony diagonally above his flat... Now, a familiar and punctual sight and sound. It was time to get up. Rub those red eyes. Stretch that neck and move those heavy shoulders. To go to work. His only dreaded constant.

Going through the motions without her by his side, he laughed on the outside. All his wisdom and his knowledge deserted him like morning birds that flew away. 

He wanted to be with her. By her side always. As her one. But he was alone. Again. 

And this time, for the first time ever... He felt lonely, too.

After a long time, a mood piece. I love writing mood pieces. :-)

Lovecycle

She's every man's dream come true.
But only for a few.
Because the rest lost out on her essence.

Her valleys and peaks
Want me to be a cartographer again.

And I shall mark the equator and the poles                       
With my ship sailing through a thousand and eight storms
On her...                  

Passion is something she's never known;
It's a history that she's yet to witness.
For what she's seen is not even a fraction
Of what's awakened inside me.

I am becoming a better man
And all because a painter painted 
Love 
On my heart.

My eyes burst
Because they couldn't take it all.

And then I closed my eyes 
To see her 
Staring back through her paintings.

Her sighing heart waxed and waned 
To measure her love 
But our frequency was higher. 

My heart stopped.
Her heart beat.

And death was certain.                       
For it's who could separate their bodies...
But couldn't tear apart their souls. 
So it gave up at Shiva's feet.                       
 
We found us there.
Our lovecycle completed.