Music and blah blah:)

The pantry man in the hostel spends major part of his night writing. Everytime I go downstairs, and see him, I find him sitting in the white plastic chair, furiously writing in a notebook. Is he a poet, writing undiscovered verse each night? Or does he have a family in a village far away, that he misses tremendously and writes letters to every single day? Or perhaps they are plaintive love letters or mechanical to-do lists or possible names for a future child or perhaps he practices the alphabet so that he can learn to write so that he can pen some undiscovered poetry someday…! Why do I always want everyone to be a poet…?!!!! :) -------------------------------- I wish there was a reason for everything I do. I wish that every word I say has purpose breathed into it. Then I look at it all and realise the unadulterated joy of recklessness. I cancel my wishes and draft a letter of apology. I will pray. I will work. I will not seek what I have. But these wishes, they keep coming back, and w...

I really want to buy everything that is here on this webpage! http://www.supermarketsarah.com/ and there's so much that I want to write about the connectedness I feel with all people, the entire cosmos. overwhelming. Some other time.. and the so many things I wrote at home, have to type them. one was that dreamy b'ful night when I waited for the moon in the sky the fact that I sat on my terrace, waiting for it to rise... and that, at that time , the chill crept up and surprised me with its cold touch and that, at that time, I couldnt think of anything but the moon, made this edited picture worth it, and much more. And I want to be here-

Inspired by Gulzar's poetry, written in pieces at home, in train, here et. हर जगह हर किसी मोड़ पे एक तिरछी लकीर की तरह तू खड़ा दिखाई देता है दिन कभी हँसता है कभी रोता है न जाने दिन में कितनी बार बच्चो सा दिन कितने रंग बदलता है रात न जाने कितनी सदियों से सोई नहीं है न जाने कब तक तन्हा यूं जागेगी रात और दिन को देखती हूँ तो याद आते हैं वोह दिन और वोह रातें (a long pause) वोः भी कैसे दिन थे रात जगती थी, हम सोते थे रात की अंखियों से ख्वाबों की बूँदें टपकती थी कुछ बूँदें तेरी आँखों में गिर जाती थी कुछ मैं अपनी आँखों में भर लेती थी रात ख्वाबों में कटती थी हम सोते थे, रात जगती थी चंदा छुपके छुपके बादलो से झाँक कर हमें सोया हुआ देखता था रात के कानों में कुछ कहता था फिर झील से नीले आसमान में कुछ देर तैर कर किसी घने बदल के पीछे जा कर सो जाता था हमने कभी चाँद और रात की बातें नहीं सुनी, पर कभी उनसे अपनी बातें छुपाई भी नहीं वोह गवाह थे उन ख्वाबों के आज कल का मौसम कुछ और है सर्द हवाएं चलती है आते जाते ये हवाएं हमसे यूं टकरा जाती है दिन गुजरने में सदियाँ लग जाती है दिन भर रात का इंतज़ार रहता है और...

Not that I do not feel like home here, but I know I belong to another place. My eyes are almost moist right now at the very thought of it. Two days down the line.. and I will be in my shrine in front of My Gods. If it seems like exaggeration, I wish I had ways to open my heart and show the plethora of emotions flooding inside it. The kind of devotion, reverence, love, affection, attachment, sweetness I feel for home, I wonder if I feel even half of it for anything else. ( ............ I am still, almost. The tears which have not yet trickled down, I can feel the love in them. I have tried writing about them... for them.. so many times. But everytime I try, I fall short of words. Every time I try, I just feel like bending my head down, closing my eyes and expressing the feelings I have for them through silence. It is surprising and may sound so illogical. But silence is definitely a language. There are so many occasions when I speak to them through it, wishing each time hopelessly that...

It's midnight, around 4 am and all I can see is the silhouette of the fan sputtering dark air on my pale face on my sleeping soul sleeping since eons with the faint taste of music that is blending in Your silence ethereal yet confusing.

raining.

It's night but the sky is blue, a midnight blue and all I can see are stars, silver specks glittering in serene vastness. _______________________ I still speak to my old friends, at length, quite often, sometimes rather too frequently. We usually end up discussing the current state of affairs in our lives, which often translates to sharing our serious and sometimes silly problems, dilemmas and choices facing us. Sometimes we talk of the wonder years, of the city that was once home to us but where nothing is left now but for memories. Amidst the changes, we stick to our memories , never wanting to go home without writing a song, on paper or air. As we moved on, our new experiences and our new visions have left us so much to talk about regarding our present selves, so divorced are we now our lives that we have to at times keep introducing things, ourselves. It seems that surviving in the competition of the world, they have not enough time to read or write, watch a play, attend a reci...