Shedding the Herd

In an era of remixes and jazzing it up, of all bang and no buck, of noise and frills, of pompousness and show, there’s some amount of courage that goes into being able to cherish the simple things. Unequivocally and unapologetically. How thrilling it must be to be able to embrace what you like. How cathartic, truly, is knowing what makes your heart sing. How freeing, to not bowing before pressure. How lovely and how fine. How human and how alive.

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I step out and it’s April

April for me is a month of uncertainty. The weather’s oscillation between hot and cold keeps me up more than half the night. The sun is warm and the breeze is pleasant. The days are equal parts energising and draining. But when I step out and notice how blue the blue of the skies is, how green the green of the leaves is and how brightly coloured is all of nature, I realise the true splendour of April. It blooms and nurtures. It revitalises and nourishes. April is Mama Earth’s way of readying us for a beautiful year ahead.

I do, do I?

Right here

Right now

There’s a question in your eyes

And an answer on my lips

On the verge of being uttered out

Right here

Right now

There’s a silent cry in your mind

And some hope in my heart

At the very brink of flickering out

Right here

Right now

There’s you

And there’s me

As raw as we’d ever be

You’ve said your vows

And I am pretty wowed

But is this really for all eternity?

Purani Jeans

You remind me of an old pair of jeans

Slightly worn

Very much faded

Snugly fitting through the various sizes I’ve been over the years

Comfortable, familiar, a go-to when I couldn’t care less

A top or a tee

With flats or heels

Flexible through all my choices

A constant echo through all my voices

You remind me of a pair of old jeans

My favourite pair

For non-English speakers, the word “Purani” in the title means “old” in Hindi. There’s a popular song in India which never fails to fill us all with nostalgia and yearning for the simpler days of our childhood. Of friends made and hearts broken. Of memories and happiness. Do give it a listen on the link below, if you like.

Waiting for the paint to dry

I picked up a paintbrush after what seems like ages, a couple of days ago. It was an unexpected holiday, frankly because I’d forgotten all about it. It was also an extremely lazy day. After sleeping away half of it, i plonked myself down on the couch and put pencil to paper. Now, if you know me a little bit, sketching has never been a problem for me. Painting, however, is an altogether different ball game. I always mess up decent sketches when trying to paint them. This time was no different. It was a mess. But it was my mess. I’d created it from scratch. And I know precisely where I went wrong and at what point things quickly became unsalvageable. Yet, I continued on to finish the painting despite this knowledge. I re-learned something that day, which I learn anew every time I create art.

Art is cathartic. Art is blissful. Art is hard. Art is all kinds of right and wrong. Most of all, art demands patience (if not tears). Sometimes, you just have to wait for the paint to dry to be able to add more beauty, more layers and those crucial, final touches. So here’s to next time, when I’ll know how to wait.

A Great Start

I think I’ve started the new year on the right note. I travelled. Twice in the very first month, in fact. And I paused. I paused myself, my thoughts and life itself. In the middle of mountains and the whitest of clouds. Underneath blue skies and a canopy of lush trees. I didn’t hear people, but I still heard sounds. Of the birds chirping. And gushing waters abound. I lost myself to adventure. I found myself in joy. I gave myself to the wilderness and I brought myself pure happiness.

Yes, I think I started the new year on a beautiful note. How have you been doing?

Said Unsaid

There’s a place where you lock away

All the things you leave unsaid

And if you ever fall weak

I’d like to somehow find the key

And then maybe

Finally

You’ll tell me

All the things you’ve left unsaid

And all the pain that you carry

All that grief that’s clawing at you

And all the venom that you’ll never spew

And then, we’ll replace them with memories

Of all the moments you’ve lived anew

And let happiness come through

The Invisible Hand

So happy in so little

So sad with so much

The gap between the haves and have nots

Is more often than not bridged

With what we call a smile

It’s a curve

And, at times, a curveball

It’s either served

On a platter

Or at a buffet, free for all

It carries with it the ghosts of unshed tears

Of trials, tribulations and all our fears

And silent screams of anguish

And efforts rendered futile

But they are what fuel and drive it

Through that very last mile

An ode to writing

Writing takes my pain and turns it into something beautiful. It draws from my sorrow and colours it with a rainbow. It sets me free and lights me up. It’s a hug from my mother and from my dad a chin up.

I hope I can do for you what writing does for me. I hope you can read this once and learn to simply be.