Sometimes a word has the ability to conjure up not only an image, but a scent, a day dream, and ever so rarely a tingle at the nape of your neck.< ?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Like the word
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Something short of paradise. Devbagh, which is about 20 kms from < ?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />
Untouched beaches, the cool surf, shimmering sunlight lighting up a strip of the ocean, barbeques by the ocean , and waking up to the sound of the waves
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The Joan of Arc-type woman looked defiantly at the bridge, lit the torch and set the structure ablaze.The flames curled beautifully around the pillars, sparks swirled around with the evening air, the smoke stung her already-wet eyes.
Another bridge burnt to ashes.
They made interesting patterns in the water, the remnants...they flowed with a purpose around the ripples, got caught in the eddies here and there, but finally did manage to move on.
No one had found her out just yet. About being the bridge-burner, that is.She usually did it when everyone least expected it. One moment she would be crossing the path, as it was her routine, the next she would be compelled to see it reduced to nothingness - as if to wipe out every memory of its existence.
She had often wondered about the wierdness of it all. Why would you want to annihilate something that had become such an indispensible part of your life, something that let you look into the depths for as long as you wanted, and never once questioned you?
You would spend hours on its back, pace up and down, or simply sit with your legs dangling over the edge and hear the crickets song in the evenings.
She had once tried keeping track of the number of times she had let this obsession take over her. But now, it seemed futile; there were simply too many...too too many...
She then set off in another direction - to find another stream to cross, another brigdge to discover, or build.
And as much as it excited her, it came with a forewarning that not too far into the future, she would have the smoke in her eyes once again.
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Another night. Another day. At midnight the line often blurs.
So does your eye - that has seen more than its share during the waking hours and longs to shut away the day that was.
The rain beats a pleasant beat on the panes - but you are achingly dry inside the glass palace. Your mind's eye pictures the sights and sounds that lie beyond - the scent of the clouds on wet earth, the tickle of the breeze on your nose tip.The arms of a lover who knows every curve.
The twinkle of gray buildings that come to life when deprived of day, the rhythm of traffic that has no agenda.
The world is in second gear at this hour of night...and you reach out to touch that perfection that drops just beyond your fingertips.
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And things are never the same after. How many point of no returns are there exactly? And how come the point of no return is always the most visited?
a death row pardon two minutes too late…
And thereby hangs an uninteresting tale.
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Another one that went away. Sacrificed to a particularly painful event called the past.
And all I'm left with are mails I had the good-sense not to delete, an inbox that thankfully supports a huge archive of messages and yes, a music collection that was created specially for me.An album compiled halfway into the night - just so it would reach on time to fill the desolate hours. So I would never get lonely.
The music plays on - more in my mind than on the speakers; each word taking on a larger-than-life dimension.
I know that each song was selected with great care - to say all that was doomed to remain unspoken, to substitute for all that would never be; to give the impermance an illusion of eternity...
But the band must play on; and with one last soulful tribute you turn your back to the world you created of memories and could-have-beens....
"Would you know my name if I saw you in Heaven?
Would you feel the same ...?
I must be strong and carry on,
'Cause I know I don't belong here in Heaven "
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It rained all night. The water beat mercilessly on the windshield, I was doing all I could to keep the windows from getting fogged up, frantically wiping them with the palms of my nervous hand
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Have you ever gone into a parlour placing your entire trust in the able hands of the chinky-looking expert beautician expecting her to transform you into the swan you always imagined yourself to be, paid her a handsome fee, along with a generous tip and come out looking like a plucked chicken?
Welcome to the world of hot wax sores and beauticians from hell. (this is not to hurt the sentiments of any, it's just that I have had the misfortune of meeting the worst of the lot)
They are a deceptive lot, mind you. Housed in swany looking parlours with endless walls displaying chic haircuts and smelling of the divine-est 'imported' cosmetics, they sure as hell know how to make this look good.
Peace prevails till you are graciously seated on the oversized bean bag, 'cosmopolitan' in hand, tapping your foot in rhythm to the latest remix number.
Then you hear the calling. You will be escorted to the appropriate section, they tell you, by the ahem, nice (obese) lady in the apron. And oh, the nice (obese, smiling) lady will look into your needs.
Bzzzz!this is when the first alarm bell in your head goes off.Escorted to the appropriate room?Why cant they do this somewhere close to the cosy bean bag..where the nice looking lady at the counter can supervise, just in case?
Nopes...and you soon know why. The 'appropriate section' is like one of those torture chambers they show in the movies..suspect paraphrenalia lying around, no idea what they use it for, hot wax already steaming in the corner, smelling nothing like the imported stuff outside..a hard chair to sit on (which they can recline at will) and nice (obese, never used deo) lady who isnt so nice anymore.
Sigh!And we wonder why life's most pensive moments are spent in the parlour chair. Some gender issues come to mind as well..is this what the metro guy really desires??
Gladly mister... I would like to see the silky smooth skin on you for a change. And don't forget the arched eyebrows...they don't cost much.
So move over nice (obese,never used deo scowling) lady...I think I'll skip the hot wax sores this time.
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Seem to be doing a guest appearance here every once in a while..but what the heck, like my dog, the blog loves me unconditionally..no questions asked.
While on the subject, a great debate took place today between two great minds of our times.(Their greatness, of course, will be apparent only posthumously...like it sadly oft happens to all people great.)
Love,they said, was nothing but.Phooey to all the mills n boon variety,phooey to soulmates even. The high is gone much too soon, and it's usually the hangover that lives to tell the tale that once was.
How true,how true. When the honeymoon's over, time to give my side of the bed back.And your smelly socks, you can launder them yourself, and oh, would you mind doing mine too?
Great battle lines are drawn..and defended with utmost care. So much for the two-peas in a pod that you once were.
And that, the great minds concluded, was the ultimate paradox of life. While man is a great island (for want of a better word,again)called individuality, he must still belong to another..many others, in fact.
In other words, you can't escape the potty training, but what you have to do, you have to do alone.
hmm..quite a profound thought..seem to be having a lot of those today funnily.
And so the great thinkers parted ways, with yet another dignified handshake and saying 'chin up' to each other.
And then they were lost to the annals of yesterday..where thoughts merge and everything ceases to exist.
And they walked away into the twilight with only the great paradox for company...debating,yet solo.
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Blazing hot, with only a rusty old structure for cover, stuck in the interiors of Andhra with only your adventurous spirit for company. We got adventurous and trekked upto an anicut; check dam from where the gushing water made quite a pretty sight.An 'anicut' incidentally, is a structure constructed across a stream to raise the water level that can be used for irrigation/drinking. More development learnings..from the rugged terrain itself. The structure I'm talking about was constructed over 150 years ago by an Arthur Cotton...i was, literally, taking a trip down history.
We had to trek a distance to get a birds eye view of the construction...scaling along a half-foot ledge sideways, with a sheer drop below(NGC style). The trick, they say is not to look at the drop below, but focus on your feet (which are a poor diversion anyway when standing on a half-foot of support)
This was definitely one of those moments where the potential of seeing your life flashing before your eyes is heightened to an uncomfortable level. The ledge,not to miss, was 250 years itself, and crumbled with the slightest touch; threatening to give way.
I sometimes get stupidly pensive and wonder how many more such adventures lie in store for me..pushing myself to go a little further with each step..coupled of course with the thrill of having reached a new high. A high which becomes a precedent in itself, a point of no-return of sorts. And there's salvation; from knowing all that can ever be known;in the best way possible.
To salvation, then - one step away.
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