At the Crossing

Once again I am trying to bridge the gorge of a gap that my writing has fallen into. Give me a while as I shine my words and polish my punchlines. Thank you those people who handed me crutches as I limp back into the woods where the trees are my words.

The past few months have been nothing short of a storm. Giant crossroads have loomed out of the blue. Suddenly I find myself thrown into a very real world and my madness is the thin blanket I wear to escape.The sheer fragility of life seemed to present itself as the most dearest people and places gave way to dust. The precious cup of things immaterial is at the brim. It threatens to spill every once as I dodge and leap and run. Solitude has become a good friend in the thickest of crowds and Introspection good counsel. Silence good music.

Mercedes is working now. She is on her own. She is in a city far from home. She is at the Giant Crossroads. And so she has stories to tell.She is meeting new people every day. She is flying kites of dreams. She is breathing in new air. And so she picks up her pen again.

The silent blade

Crashed open

The icy locks

Of glassy gates

Of linear thought

And quiet ways.

An open sea,

Sails soared

No shores

The boatman smiled,

“it is now

Half-past tomorrow.”

There was a little house on end of the lane

do not be fooled by the 'little'ness

for there is hardly much innocence to this little house

Hear them wailing at night

hear them wild cries and dim growls

and the bellowing of the monsters inside

Have been to the house?

It is no house, it is but a theatre

a theatre of roaring lions

of fiery red, flaming orange and deep dead blues.

There sits an aging woman at the foot of a chair

the dispassionate girl, 

and the great old lion.

The lion has his fingers crossed like the king

about to deliver justice,

his eyes glisten with too much to drink

like the hair of his great mane.

Some say he was a poet

who lost his fiery pen on quest, for wisdom.

The woman knows, I suspect,

the whereabouts of the poet lion.

Her old eyes have a quaint shine of old love

as she sings a melancholy tune

echoed by the tales of the old poet

He knew many a hundred stories

he knew names of every great man

 he knew beasts and he knew trees

he knew how deep every ocean could be

and he knew beauty, like no one sees

Spoke the lion of old songs and spells

his wisdom was deeper than the deepest hell. 

The glorious days set years ago

The mane has lost its golden glow

the eyes are water pools.

The lights are flickering feeble

like those in the eyes of the woman

The girl was free,

This was no prison,

but this old lion

and this old woman

you see they were chained together,

by a tarnished old chain

as heavy as the years

a chain the girl could never see.

Chai, dreams, streets.

By the time I got out of the auto my nose was frozen to the degree that I could break it off  of my face. The cold air had razored my cheeks like steely knives.

As we sped by, the highways got narrower, the life less fantastic, the day more ordinary. The auto-rickshaw meandered bumpy by-lanes, cutting many a crossroad and finally reached a little street. We pulled up beside a row of three-storeyed buildings that stood shoulder to shoulder. Muthu opened a nearly invisible gate that led to a completely invisible stairway. It was only as wide as an average guy.

We waited till a sleepy Aroma (who is one of Muthu's roomates) opened the door.

The room was tiny and dark, cluttered with girl-ammo. Shoes of every colour , bags the same, and piles of clothes rolling off the chair and onto the floor. There was one other room, a kitchen, a toilet and a little balcony. The floor was cold and hard. Muthu pulled down the mattresses leaning on the wall and sat me on it. She threw me a couple of pillows and a blanket and scampered off to make some coffee.

I liked it. This little nest, a tad cold, but it was definitely a fresh morning from my daily rut.

After a bit, Aroma whom I had soon christened Squeaky Toy (her voice), left for work. Muthu took me to her daily breakfast corner shop down the street. There were tables where you could stand, and tables where you could sit.I saw the cosmopolitan city in that mookkipodi-deppi  (the malayali would understand, his old snuff box )of a shop! There were IT professionals, coolies, small businessmen and us girls. There were no haughty stares, there was no hierarchy, there was just breakfast.

When we left, Muthu took a left to her office and I headed back home. I walked, taking long happy strides. The weather reminded me of Decembers of Muscat. The cold, crisp air  of a sunny morning, I loved it. I remembered how we played basketball at school on such mornings, in our white track pants and bottle-green tees. I remembered my friend Christina playing with me.

****************************

The following days I would stay in, till Muthu came home during meal times. Each time we would go to a new place. We went to Achayan's, the Malayali oone kada, where the Banglore-Malayali could take a safe bite of his favourite red meat. Then there was Thulp! , a comic themed restaurant with funny names for dishes; Chaipatti was probably my favourite--a refurbished apartment (or office, I'm not sure) where Mr. Chirag,the handsome lean owner served his hot masala tea in Kulhads, in his cosy little tea rooms.

I watched the different kinds of people that swarmed the streets of this city. They walked fast, life was busy, they walked with purpose. I have seen people walk with purpose. Purpose palled over their faces in Trivandrum. But it was different here in Bangalore. Here people walked with purpose of making the most of their little lives. They were living to live. Even Mr. Chirag , who started off in garage, was now floors above that now. And like his name his face shone. He loved serving his masala tea in those kulhads. He loved that we loved it.

If I could bring back  home something, I would bring back some of that love. That love for life. After a final streak of shopping through the infamous Commercial Street, the time came for me to pack my (loot) bag with my newly bought goodies and go home. 

On my way back, I thought about life, and dreams and happiness. I fell asleep soon (there was no snoring man nearby).

Packing Bags for Christmas.

The family has packed their bags and flown or driven off to different parts of the world. My sister and I were paired and packed off to Bangalore. The five day camp at Padmanabhapuram had reduced me to a bag of creaky bones. My muscles and and mind had barely woken up when Christmas celebrations at college came up. And thus in much delirium I was hauled with the rest of the baggage into a giant Volvo with Muthu (as Mercedes readers would remember is my very own sister Alfa).

The bus whirred forth, the blessed suspension  springs making the journey gentle and smooth despite the pothole-pecked road. I lounged back onto the reclining seat, pulled the thin ochre-coloured blanket the bus provided, and plugged in my headphones.

Soon all was but coloured lines of night lights, and all my daily worries flew by one by one like how an ashen piece of paper would crumble away to the wind. Soon was I was in that dreamy lair above the material world, tuned into one of those long philosophical bus journeys. Occasionally when my Hans Zimmer soundtrack hit a grave low spell my peace would be ripped apart like dagger down a sheet of cotton, by the snoring man seated behind us.

I woke up to a misty glass, rubbed it with a corner of my blanket- something I love to do. We were zooming by a dusty,dry  and extremely cold highway. "Electronics City" croaked the conductor. I glanced dubiously at my sister as I swung my seat upright, she nodded that I had heard it right. We hopped off at Madiwala where a pack of autorickshaw drivers pecked around us noisily. Muthu pushed her way through the pestering crowd, past the yellow and green auto rickshaws, fleeting puffs of engine exhaust warming our frozen legs.

We finally got into an auto that lay stray , ahead of the clutter. "Old Airport Road," instructed Muthu.

The wake-up call

I have been pretty coiled up and docile for almost two years now.Looking at the number of time I have to hit backspace, things definitely are dusty. Dust. My mind seems to twirl like scattered dust in an empty lit room.

I can't find the right shiny words to express the hundred things I want to say. Looking back at my old blog I feel a funny tickle incongruously running around my brain when my heart feels dull and sunken.

Perhaps this is the best way to start- find a couple of old favourite words, heave deep sigh and exhale the guilt of having not written for two years,kiss your keyboard and start.