World of Small Things

Dear Unknown, My eyelids are heavy and weary, yet too timid to embrace each other. Autumn whispers shyly through the netted window. This damp, dismal night is lit only by the sickly glow of flickering neon letters perched atop a preening building, screaming in shades of electric red and yellow. But it is in this horrid limelight that I speak tonight, to an audience of famished trees, elusive crickets and the anaemic winds of October.  Through half open eyes I watch this vulgar vista contort itself into hypnotising swirls in the murky puddles that litter the construction site below. In the haziness of a sleepless reverie I could see a reflection of myself in them. These puddles were cowards too, skulking behind a veil of unintelligible obscurity, distorting anything that remotely cared to pry beyond the surface.  I think back to the drivel that I have spilled on these pages. Brutish brushstrokes I have smeared canvases with. All those stuffy verses and crude colours never stood...

Dear Reader,  There’s something grotesque afoot on the rain-drenched verandah floor.  A broken wing of a dragonfly is erratically wandering about, as if in a frantic search for its now flightless, maybe lifeless owner. The obvious perpetrator is underneath - a contumacious ant, coloured bright red by a churning rage that refuses to be confined in such a mortal being.  I silently cheer it on. Not unlike a dragonfly and its wings, time too is unpredictable and menacingly beautiful, feigning stillness by moving blindingly quick. The spirited ant reflects our fate - a frail creature battling a gargantuan foe, celebrating every inflicted wound, even a severed wing.  Knotted veils of rain now drape the landscape, peeling it into distinct layers. Within a few moments, a feeling of ineffable warmth envelopes my senses. Reality refracts and smudges into painterly realism. The painfully metallic scent of the world is replaced by the intoxicating fragrance of nostalgia. The eve...

Dear Reader,  The clock has struck eleven.  A thin yet austere blanket of clouds has materialised over the once starry sky, like algae on a stagnant pond. I can feel the stars stray farther away into the unknown as the wisps of pale violet consume them.  But the goddess of love now shines brighter, exuding her enigmatic allure.  I have found a neat corner on the verandah for this rather unexpected session of documenting absurd contemplations. Accompanying me is a modest white pillar which is subtly conveying its disregard for 'meaningless' imagination. I am tempted to engage this silent gentleman in a discussion about reality, escapism and the meaning of it all.  The harsh surgical glow of a fluorescent light dramatically bathes the rocky broken soil of the front lawn which is now occupied by a lanky, drowsy stray dog which was intermittently breaking its nap to peer at me with curious, melancholic eyes.                ...

Dear Reader, On this crisp February evening of the new decade, I find myself in yet another turbulent bus ride. Buildings were shimmering in the distance. Their lights flickered methodically:- a message lost in translation.  As we inched forward, the people behind the wheels seemed to be in a trance, hypnotised by the floating lights that bloomed and faded before them. A group of people crossing the road abruptly broke that spell. Even in that tiny group of individuals, there was a lot to observe. Some walked briskly with their eyes fixed on the other side of the road. Others broke out in to brief jogs and their gaze shifted from one approaching vehicle to another. As a person who dislikes, but embraces change, this group of jaywalkers made me ponder about how different people handle change. Some judge, assess and predict. Others make the leap of faith. But some choose to remain on the sidelines. Like bystanders, they watch life fly by in streaks and blurs of light....

Dear Readers, Today I write to you in a more mundane state of mind than usual. Huddled in a corner of a bus amongst other ruffled inhabitants of the city, I feel grounded, yet entangled in the inexplicable threads that help this metropolis move. In my hand was a crumpled piece of paper on which I had penned down a few words in crooked handwriting. Seated in the sanctuary of a dilapidated bus stop, gazing out at the swarming street, my mind had wandered. I had written: The first gust of monsoon brushes gracefully through the wilted leaves, Her locks of sienna and hazel surrender to the frenzied breeze. The dusk serenades in orange and gold. Swarms of feet toil in the drizzle, Rhythmically they stomp and shove. The once dusty roads are now abstract paintings of the eerie sky above. The rain has granted reflections to all. All sans one. The dusk was slowly being invaded by the darkness of night. The faint moonlight filtered through the sm...

Panic. Confusion. Hysteria. I cannot fathom where I am headed nor where I am. The colours around me are blurred and blended into terrifying forms of a troubled artist's handiwork. Cold, menacing winds pierce into my bones. Slowly, I float. In the mortifying silence, I smile through gritted teeth. Somewhere in the freefall, I shifted focus. The persistent cold and the tumultuous colours seemed to fade away. And then in the hurricane, I found bliss.  Now I struggle to make it stay. I looked outside at the soil that was slowly cooling down after surviving the ferocity of the midday sun. Scalding streams of wind were kicking up dust and sprinkling it over the road. The world outside was bone dry, unaware of the tempests which had enraged the seas of thought in which I was struggling to stay afloat. Stationed at my table, looking over the dusty summer evening, I tried to ground myself to reality and plant the tree of thought back in its place again, afte...

Dear Reader, On this brisk November morning, I have gleefully succumbed to the urge of getting lost in my thoughts which were resonating, echoing and growing too big for the abode that they were birthed in. Ticking clocks, screaming voices ,bustling streets, pounding hearts and sleepless nights have conquered my cocoon and become a constant presence in my existence. Sometimes, I think of it as addictive madness , because I cannot live without it. So when these grotesque spirits of the modern world start toying with my mind and drowning out the voice of my own consciousness, I seek solitude , silence and the sounds of nature. As I sit on the verandah ,with the cold marble and the crisp breeze sending occasional chills down my spine, I stare out into the magnificent expanse of dark olive and green leaves of the wise old tree ,rooted strongly and proudly on the other side of the humble, dusty road which is quite under qualified to carry out it's role as a State Highw...