Musings

Mirror image

When I was nine years old, I stared into the mirror on my parents’ cupboard – the one I had adorned with stickers of fruits – and committed that moment to memory. It was an experiment.

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Musings

Skies and seas

The sea stretches as far as the horizon. There are small fishing boats lined across the shore in front of Casa Meena – the blue and white Portuguese style villa whose first-floor balcony gives me the perfect spot to stalk the night sea. I think the sea pretends. Subtle and demure throughout the day, maybe even playful; and yet at around 3 A.M when I look at her, she is twisted in turmoil. With every wave, she tries to break free, to be truly unrestricted but the currents keep her fierce and unsettled.

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Musings

Ones worth preserving

Glass panes and dingy metal storage boxes. Museums and lost corners of the bed. They hold priceless objects handed over centuries.

As a kid, I never understood the point of museums – large halls with old things people pretentiously pointed at and talked about. For me, history would mean tales of average people, like my grandfather, who lived on the margins and died therein.

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Musings

Wail of the verses

While novels transport you to a reality no one owns, poetry wrenches one’s soul for a brief minute, passing on all that is and was, eerily like a deathbed confession and flows away. When I leave that room, I am no longer the person who walked in. My soul has been touched, and the world can never be its innocent self again.

Musings

Who are our mothers?

I cannot but wonder what would have happened if all the intellect and art, lost over centuries behind closed doors under the pretense of belonging to the wrong gender, were put to use before their owners forgot they ever possessed it. Some wars might have been avoided, some new ones even created. We might have cured diseases from which people die even today. There might have been masterpieces created in the hands of ordinary women, without terming the few who had the impudence to pursue something beyond the duties assigned to the protected occupation of womanhood as outcasts.

Musings

The commonplace masterpiece

I’m neither a master nor do I believe that there can be nothing better than the best. So do know when you summon me by pouring in the moonlight through the window, that I might gift you the best I have, but then a monsoon shower might let me create something more beautiful, a while later.

Musings

Grey-hounds, as you roll in…

She danced a magical dance, and her feet hardly touched the ground. Mesmerized, I watch as lighting comes with a tone of surprise. He brings the tension along with him and 1,2,3… I start to count with my palm firm on the wooden armrest. Then comes in the special guest, behold the mighty thunder they say. All my windows clatter in fear as thunder roars, and the lights go off. I sit in the faint candlelight and wish to get back the heartbeat thunder stole from me.

Musings

Swifts and sunsets

There is a strange comfort in being kilometers away from the place you call home and yet feeling like you belong there, in the moment. Isn’t life all about finding the right places to be belonged to at each moment? Isn’t every ounce of human brilliance, every invention, every novella, born only because it was created right there and then, where it was born?

Musings

An optimist’s nightmare

I look out the window, and surprisingly I don’t see COVID or its mercenaries, nor do I hear the gossips and village grapevine. They have all fallen into the abyss. Very much like the latter, which I have adorned under the pretense of cute characteristics of simple people trying to make their everyday lives interesting, the former has also fallen through the rabbit hole, not even surprising me by guest appearances in dreams.

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