Mi Regreso.

The dissection of Rip Van Winkle's morale brings out several alluring traits. For starters, the henpecked husband that he was, he probably couldn't have spent the heydays of his life in a better way other than snoozing under a friggin' tree. Making himself unavailable to the rest of the world was probably the greatest benevolent task he accomplished in his otherwise mundane life. While he was dreaming of the great pig in the sky, the world turned over and around several times, bruising and wounding itself on its way. For all those years, like a diplomatic speck of water does on a lotus leaf, he established his existence. What better way to drag oneself into the pages of legend and folklore and be reminisced by the succeeding era!
Unlike anything aforementioned, reasons for my departure from the emerald pond was utterly inconsequential. Let's just say that I broke my pen, and it took a while to fix it. And now I'm back. Mi Regreso.

Images and Words.

I am sure that the mail about this picture(and a few more in the series) has reached most of our mailboxes. And as is the trend now, any mail with even a mildly interesting fable will shuttle across the information highway till it reaches the point where we send it to trash at the look of its subject line.

Now the first time I got the mail, it had more of a chronological labelling of the events(genuine or gyan) shown through a series of snap-shots. Keeping aside the statistical jabber, the conclusion drawn from the series was highly subjective.

1. The passion called photography.
2. Insanely stupid acts people do without getting high.
3. Amazing photoshop-ing.

Now as expected, the mail hit me the second time in the day. But this time I noticed a difference. Below the usual series of the images, there is an apparently inspiring one-liner on the lines of "The will to do is the greatest. Believe in yourself." Some enlightened soul has decided to do justice to the images and replaced the descriptive jargon with some fodder for thought.

And fodder for thought it is. It has lead me thinking that is it that necessary to molest a picture's pristine complexity by drawing a definitive conclusion out of it? Doesn't that completely disregard the viewer's independence of open interpretation?

Chronological or sequential descriptions are a different story altogether as they are written to serve a different purpose, from a photo-journo point of view. But I find this dogmatic approach towards viewing photographs utterly retarded. I fear the day when Taj Mahal or the Everest would have to come with a billboard that reads "Dangerous Beauty" or "The Power of Love". Why does everything in life has to come with a punchline?

Let the images be their own words. Let them speak, make them free.

Fireworks

The decision came all by itself.

PM : We appreciate your depth of knowledge but I think there is a little more dedication needed to be put in this project, since its the crucial delivery period. (The "crucial delivery period" has been prolonging since the last few months.)

PA: (Expected to say something, at least a lame excuse, but keeps mum.)

PM : Ummmm........ Is there something bothering you in your work. If there is, please discuss it with us, we can help you out.

PA : No sir, actually the problem is with me. I don't like this work.

PM : (Blinks twice) .......Okaaay.....

PM :(Regains composure) But see you have to be diligent towards any work.

PA : Yes sir, I totally agree. So I decided to resign. (And in my head, a thousand fireworks exploded.)

PM : (The blank stare is back.) Ummmm....but see no matter what company you join, you have to be diligent...(So its the Loop.)

PA : I am switching my field of work. Mostly to ads.(I think if I would've said "I want to be an astronaut with a pink bow, it would've had the same effect.")

PM : .....Okaay....

" It's a great thing when you realize you still have the ability to surprise yourseIf.

Makes you wonder what else you can do that you've forgotten about."

Plan K or B?

Excerpts from the diary I found in the middle of nowhere, as if it has literally fallen from the sky.

"Plan A: Do Karwa Chauth.
Plan B: The Mars Bars are always there in the fridge.

See if you really want to ceremonialize some ritual with much righteousness, then do it more recurrently. I am the perfect instance of all the reasons why we shouldn’t be just waking up one day and putting our life in a different box altogether. It’s not the question of pushing it to the limits, because embarrassment awaits at the finishing line. Yes I shall come to it, patience my dear.

First of all I’m anything but a morning person. The pesky alarm went off at 5, much to my agony and here I am, sitting on the bed limply, like the vintage bedposts. This is my only chance to gorge my solitary meal for the day, before the sun comes up. And no wonder it seems to be in a hurry to brighten up the sultry alleys and damp attics of this concrete jungle.

My only fire-exit for the day: Sleep!
As much as I can stretch it , as long as I can prolong it. Nothing else has been this effective in alleviating the pang of hunger, if you don’t count manic depression.
So I finally woke up bypassing the morning, riding on my REM Cycles. Quite literally.

The noon was quite uneventful. Though I did learn abut the different harmonics and octaves of noise that my tummy can make when starved. As if it has grown a mind of its own and noisily revolting against this divine protocol. The Mars Bars were calling me like the veelas. All my strength went behind restraining myself from gobbling up the rich chocolate bars, rather than dealing with this ‘ungodly’ routine!

Finally, evening and my dear husband(who’s been generous enough to fast with me, to give me “company.” Now that’s sweet. ) arrived. The Grand Finale, the Celestial Epilogue.
Stringent steps were followed, panchalis were chanted. Legends were narrated. (Girl does KC for guy. Big-hearted brother homies make a bakhra out of girl by hanging a ‘tin-foil moon’ in the terrace. Girl dumb enough to believe it. Breaks fast. Hapless hubby pops off as an unprecedented outcome. Damn! Now what??!! After a series of unfortunate incidents, not Lemony’s Snickets kind though, girl gets back guy form the dead. Although after reluctantly swapping places with the maid for quite a while.
Moral of the story: Do KC or be ready for the swap!) I’m sure some chauvinist pork has penned this down.

It seems that my alimentary abyss has formed an angry vacuum that’s trying to digest me form the inside. The thought of you getting sucked into your own tummy is not remotely funny….or maybe it is. Who cares!!??...I’m as hungry as hell!

I can see the finish line now. I feel like a triumphant athlete, sans the mind-numbing hunger and the funny grumblings. How was I to know only embarrassment was lurking behind that seamless and velvety ribbon!

The final chapter of the ritual involves seeing your man in the pearly-white luminescence of moonlight. An age-old formula of courtship. The final few metres, the last few leaps. But the moonlight seems a tad dull today! Or is it just me??!!....what the……

The pale and palpitated face of my in-laws focuses into vision. They were trying to fan me, put soaked jal-patti on my forehead, slip some juice through my non-reactive mouth and feed me some of my beloved Mars Bars, all at the same time. And you can call me the smallest person alive, but my sheer stupidity and the resulting mayhem made me burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

And that secured the last, big fat nail into the coffin. My in-laws took it for a fact that the day-long abstinence has catapulted me across my limits of sanity. My ghoulish laughter was a result of the sheer cerebral imbalance that my senses were pushed into! I was the martyr; my legend would be narrated on this pious day henceforth. I made a quick effort to control my giggle and assured them with the sanest tone possible that I was fine and there was nothing to worry about.

After my dramatic performance of passing out on the terrace, my hubby had to put up with me and carry me all the way down passing the amused and sympathetic gaze of the tenants. Few of the concerned ones (or maybe the ones fishing for some more amusement) knocked on our doors and wanted to make sure that I was alive and kicking myself in humiliation.

Moral of the new-age metrosexual KC: When there’s a Plan B, follow it! It’ll save you a few bashful moments."

Return of the boy shaped Memory.

My grandma was narrating me a story of the times when I still haven’t learnt to bottle up my memories for future cherishment and retrospection.

I didn’t have any idea what she was talking about. It was as good as listening to the story of some everyday brat visiting his grand ma’s place and plundering everything to recommence with his plan of world domination. She was narrating the incident as if it has happened moments earlier in the other room.

It is then I realized that I am not the sole proprietor of my memoirs. The memory that I perpetuate is a mere morsel of the treasure that lies deep within the catacombs of the known and strange faces. Memory is like that glue in disguise that binds us altogether, for better or for worse. Our life gets fragmented and makes a perfect fit in somebody else’s jigsaw puzzle. Like sand, when it flows, seldom has it accumulated into a molehill, but has osmosed into every nook and corner of whatever came in its way.

Maybe its out there, disposed as a harmless footnote in somebody's chronicle. We never bid each other adieu when it slipped away from my pocket..... And maybe in some sardonic way, it’ll come back to me, my prodigal son.

Coffee Quarantine.

Wake up and throw away the coffee. It makes you sick. Did we ever need coffee when we used to gambol in the backalleys during the summer holidays and come back home covered in an inch of muck? Did we ever need that shot of caffeine when we used to partake in those "School Sports Day"? We used to wake up an hour earlier than the usual, brimming with exuberance and anticipation. Going to school in the white uniform was never more appealing.

We never needed coffee when we used to wake up to listen to the punctuated chanting of the Mahalaya on the radio at wee hours of the morning. Or stay up late on New Year's Eve, and witness the fireworks with a gaping awe.

And then came the coffee.

We drank its blood and it devoured our soul in a swig.

How come for all this while we never dozed off in the middle of a hide-n-seek game or felt remotely slumberous during the shimmering fireworks? .....we don't learn to react to a stimuli till we're introduced to it. Addiction to dependency, wealth to craving. And then we fabricate our mighty fort around it. We have bartered our juvenile hullabaloo to caffeine with a life of sluggishness and hackneys.

Its time I throw away that porcelain and get some lungs.

No more coffee for me. Goodbye and goodnight.

Lyrics that just refuse to leave my Head (And they just keep on coming...)

It's like rain on your wedding day
It's a free ride when you've already paid
It's the good advice that you just didn't take
Who would've thought ... it figures

It's a traffic jam when you're already late
It's a no-smoking sign on your cigarette break
It's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife
It's meeting the man of my dreams
And then meeting his beautiful wife

And isn't it ironic... don't you think
A little too ironic... and yeah I really do think...

- Ironic(Alanis Morissette)
The lyrics looks like its been stolen from The God's Cupboard of Blueprints for Making Lives. I guess when fact transcends the horizon of brutality, it becomes funny. And I laugh at my own misery. Sometimes this life seems to be in an unrestorable deadlock. Listen to this when you are in one and you'll too enjoy that crooked smile!