.

Chipped graphite rolls in between the finger tips

It has a wooden cloak

It nudges the white under to let it move

Allow it to dance on it

But it is repelled

By the brain that is lying beside

For it has gone through 300 emotions in the past second

The graphite mulls

Not knowing what piece to perform

Its confused

The wooden cloak it wears is getting sullied

It looks ancient

But has no proof of experience

It is still long but not drawn

It has not been written with

Danced with

It is handled by nail-bitten appendages

Anxious and trembling

Scared of what might be said or heard

It needs to let go

Of the brain

Of the fingers

Of the cloak

Of the white

All of it

A Minute

Give me a minute

Let me rewind

To a time long gone

To a wind blown away

A morsel chewed

Trickled bead of sweat

A morning tea

Rustling crisp leaflets

Fogged spectacles

Kohl smudged eyes

Tired jubilant smiles

The stretch on the bus

Heavy backs of bags

The setting sun

Starry night walks

Familiarity of populace

Touch of books

The lost letter

Seventh birthday card

A crumpled photograph

Snippets of my Coloured Compartmentalised Life.

Canvas

There lies the white

In a room cluttered

There is a smell of damp wood

Wet by the moisture of paints and sweat

It stings the air

Creates a vacuum in the lungs

In the darkness, it sparkles

With a dull antiquated sheen

Newness is stark and sharp

This has a soothing warmth to it

Ironic, as the room is still cold

There is no inspiration

Eyes are glued to the pristine board

Not knowing what to do

Not knowing where to begin

Not knowing how to end

There builds a bond between the two

Speechless, yet heavy in meaning

The wood echoes the muted voices

There are no more in the room

But it feels claustrophobic

The white must go

The echoes around need to be inked

Only then will there be a breath

Respiration for life

Perspiration of desire

The paints drip

The canvas is weeping

With joy or sorrow is unknown

What lies in front is a motley of strokes

Is the air lighter?

The lungs expand

The chilled musty air rushes in

Discomfort persists

There is something wrong

I forgot to add my heart

And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?

A script is in the offing. As I write this I am having a conversation with a friend about the title. We're playing around with words, their synonyms and the like. The play was in Hindi. The beauty of the language never ceases to amuse me. But it can't be done with that beauty here. It would be lost. Incomprehensible. It has been translated, transcribed, and is now going through the final processor. Getting cleansed and purified. What will come out shall have a beauty of its own. Mythology is magical, regardless of the language it is in.

The past few weeks have been slow on me. The days have dragged their feet around in slushy waters. Barren lands. Parched grasses. They have reminded me of days gone and made me wonder with fear of the days to come. We all go through days like these. They come and go leaving you stronger and bolder.

Standing in the sun, sweat dripping from every pore of my skin, I saw the stack on the road side and gasped in utter disbelief. I had just walked out of a store that I had last been to nearly 5 years ago. Back then it was different. The outer walls conveyed nothing what they held, but now they bear resemblance to the inside. The owner and I spoke for about an hour. The conversation started with a discussion on a photograph and ended with marriage advice. Its funny how these conversations take shape. Most of the times one is unable to the trace the trajectory. Anyway, the shop held within its palms treasures of the past- ranging from gadgets to comics to CDs. I could see, feel and hear the history radiating from the room. Whatever I held was not on sale. Comics being my weakness formed a big part of the conversation we had.

Coming back to the scorching heat and popping eyes, I stood aghast at the sight of DC marvel comics at the road side second/third/fourth-hand bookseller. I had just walked out of a store that had preserved them as collector's item-Not for Sale. And there my old man was selling them at a pittance, cause for him Batman/Superman and the like were heroes that would bring him his dinner home. I drowned in a pile of them and emerged with half a dozen. I looked like a five year old who had just got her favourite candy. I came home a winner. I will be seeing my old man soon, and will rob him more.

Hugo. A great movie after a really long time. A movie after a really really really long time. I loved every angle of it. Scorsese, my man. It certainly outlived my dreams. Made my day hopeful, bright and warm. I screamed a text to my friend saying I loved it. She replied with a I-know-what-you're-feeling smile and said its amazing how the movie with such great ease tops all our lists. It does. I have made a movie list for myself, and I am ticking it down. Slowly.

Case of Exploding Mangoes. You are a delight. You are dark. You are painful. But you are incredibly funny! Just how does Mohammed Hanif do that? I want his brain. Check if he has a cerebral cortex of humour that is lacking in others. I need to get back to him. I need my dose of cheer for the day.

Solitude

I feel like going on a trek tonight. There are several places in my mind. In the the evening I wanted to stomp on snow and make my way up a mountain. Feel the cold winds numb my fingers and turn my nails blue. Breathe the winter. Freeze time in that pristine whiteness that would surround me. But now, as the moon appears behind the pitch blackness, I am reminded of my midnight walk along the deep woods from university to the monument. It was a mass trek, with close to a hundred odd people. We still managed to lose ourselves.

I remember laughing till tears rolled out as we cooked up stories of having been diverted by a strange man in a white t-shirt, who we morphed to be a ghost. In the dead of the night, a bunch of us were stranded. We had gone around and come around. Or so we thought. In the darkness, all the trees looked cloned, all the branches scratched and all the paths were sparkling with foliage streamed moonlight. It was past Cindrella's time. We awaited a fairy godmother to come show us the light. A light different from the one that was spooking us all.

A man hailed from afar. Our light. The different one. Having sung songs of the past to keep ourselves entertained, we moved ahead after what seemed an hour. Closer to the voice, back on track. It took our group much longer to reach. We took routes the others hadn't. We trailed heights that others saw from below. We did reach, but much delayed. The others were on their way back. Some made fun of us, but we gloated at having passed shrubs and trees that they hadn't, graveyards that they hadn't, experienced haunt as they hadn't. We always were good story tellers.

It was a full moon night. The trek had lasted for about 5 hours. We reached the arms of our cozy rooms in taxis at the break of dawn. Exhausted. We dreamt. Of what, I don't remember. Must have been something pleasant for we slept with smiles pasted on our faces.

Memories have a snowball effect. But the snowball I want right now is the one I'll make for myself. I want my snow tonight and I am not in a mood to share it. Not this time. At least for a while.

My Lee Filters swatch book is lying next to me. I have spent the day painstakingly looking at each filter against the sunlit window. I am still looking at them through the white tubelight. I am not a fan of white light. I like to add colours, maybe thats why I enjoy lighting. I want to rig a spot light climbing up the ladder, focus it at stage centre, put the colour I like the most at the moment and sit under it with my book.

Let the hall be empty.

Let them not know I am here.

Let them not know I exist.

Let them not know I am lit.