Dear Annie,
I am not sure who you are or even, why I am writing this letter to you. The things that am going to tell you today may not even make sense to you. You are liable to think am crazy yet I want to tell you all this. Maybe, there are a few things that remain unsaid like a quiet veil around our lives. Or, maybe it’s just that I miss the habit of sharing my thoughts with someone like I once used to with a person sitting on a certain bench staring at clouds, broken stairways and rain…
I am not sure whether you will ever get to read this letter, for I do not know where or whom to send it to. So, I will just float it in the wind and maybe, it will find its way to you in the end. Things always do come home, you know, no matter how long it takes.
It’s been a while since I last wrote to you, so I am a bit rusty and I do not even know what to say. You know, they say, that life comes round in a complete circle, but what I like to believe is that it shapes up in mysterious ways, kind of like the random shapes the rocks get under the constant battering of the sea. They are all different, unintentionally shaped over hundreds of years, yet they all fit in as if they were all meant to be there.
There is always this dilemma when I write to you, a tug-of-war between whether to apologise for reasons I do not understand or tell you that none of it was my fault. I have come to learn that it is a bit of both.
It, however, suffices to say that you changed my life, maybe even saved it. It suffices to say that am sorry that my love was not strong enough to keep even God from pulling you away. Yet, there is this guitar and every tune I play reminds me of a certain balcony where you used to sing to me.
By now, perhaps you are wondering what the whole point is behind this meandering letter. As, I said, I do not know and when I post it today in the air of a virtual world, it will be a message and a prayer. A message that my yesterdays are still a part of my tomorrows but, that am slowly learning to choose between them and there soon maybe a day when I will choose my tomorrow free of my yesterday. It is a message that, when that day comes, it will not be an insult or me forgetting something, it will simply be me embracing sunrise again.
And, it is a prayer that you find peace with this letter and love. A love that can keep you safe and calm the tumultuous wind that keeps shattering things within us. It is a prayer that when you gaze into the horizon at the sunset, all you think of is that if the sunset is that beautiful, how beautiful the sunrise is going to be.
With all my love,
rain messenger
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
The Widow
The surreal fogs are back…
Her mind feels while waiting in her lonely balcony
She feels nothing…the mind cannot reach her…
She waits…grasping the railing…her knuckles white
She knows she has faltered…
Grasped by a sudden fear…
Of a dark winter… Of snow…
And, a dead body frozen in the cold…
She waits…knowing she will jump…
She knows, he watches
Silently…mockingly…the perpetual cigarette on his lips…
She knows he is dead and that, she betrayed him…
She wanted to leave him…
Having found love at a crossroad…
Yet, he didn’t give her a chance
He died…binding her to him…forever
And, she shivers…
Yet, she doesn’t feel the cold
And she thinks of the red saree…
And the missing vermillion on her head…
She waits…knuckles white…
Staring out…as the fog engulfs her…
And, a lonely poem…lost in the jungle…
Calls her…while she waits…knowing he waits too…
Monday, November 9, 2009
Stairways
She saw the star…
Quiet…Dead…Luminous
And she searched…
The heavens and forgotten stairways…
The broken dolls and the glass marbles she lost
The child whose hand she let go…
Amongst the crowd, in the race…
To reach the stairway to her dreams…
The suffocation of happiness
And, her need of love…
Something, more than what her lovers gave…
Something, they don’t understand, neither does she…
Yet, it is the stairway…
That holds her down…
Unmoved…Solid…Unaffected…
And, the forgotten piano is played again
Her, escape from all that is…
Tearing apart all those who loved her…
Different…Lost…Hated…by choice
She dreams of heavens and forgotten stairways
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Reason
Playing a melancholy tune
While the winds whisper in her ear
The language of unheard music
And the dreams of a liar
The lost purpose…
And hidden fears
In the vain quest
For knowing why she is here…
She seeks…she stumbles…
Wishing she understood the reason…
Behind the blind, eternal chaos
Crying in vain…desperate to clasp life…
Live-wire and life in the fast lane
Restless life and a sleeping volcano
Come together for a concerto…
And, play while she waits for epiphany…
Violins and wind chimes…
Singing in the distance…in the distance
And, a late night call…left behind…far behind…
She knows yet forgets but she wants…a reason.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Rain Messenger's Diary 11.... Ma
Clouds float by my sight, appearing like frozen smoke, as if someone just froze time to capture their fluid motion upwards. I had come back to the city of my soul again for a brief sojourn along the banks of Hoogly. As, I fly back, I reminisce but strangely I also remember the stranger city and some strangers who have started becoming otherwise.
I do not claim to understand the meaning of these fleeting neural responses triggered by unknown hormones, but nevertheless we live our lives learning to trust them. It is this paradox that I grapple with, flying 37000ft above sea-level, in the land of clouds where fleeting thoughts hold sway. As, I look out of the small window of this huge aircraft, all I can see is the Himalayas stretched endlessly along the horizon reflecting the red sunbeams of early dawn in its snow-capped peaks. Morgan Freeman in the movie The Bucket List also does something similar while flying at night and exclaims that stars has to be one of the “good-ones” among God’s creations. Being an atheist however I cannot totally agree with the creation aspect but honestly similar emotions flood my mind as I watch this majestic beauty in all its glory. It is an immensely humbling experience, as I feel my worries slipping away before the immensity of what I am experiencing in this routine flight that I am sharing with almost 120 others.
However, in spite of the presence of so many people I am isolated, safe in my anonymity and the advantage of being mutual strangers. There is silence. There is the whirring engine. There are the Himalayas catching clouds in its peaks. And, there is me. I always find an intriguing presence of a sort of pain in every solace, or rather a bit of loneliness in every journey, and this one is no different. I am no longer sure of my emotions, for I no longer trust them. Yet, it is trying to tell me something which I am pushing away, as long as I can. I will not survive another brush with the past, tangible or intangible, and so I hide scared from the one emotion I had sworn to live by.
Most of you, who has bothered to read till here and yet hold the desire to read on, must be wondering about the excessive and continued use of ‘I’ in the previous paragraphs. To be totally honest I do not exactly know myself but all I do know, is that it is but natural to be lost in the streams of consciousness and lose oneself in the world of memories. Yet, another puja arrived, bringing with it, like it always does, the intoxicated dance of kashful and the heady beats of dhak. For me this festival has always been something much, much bigger than just another Hindu ritual. It remains special not just for the grandeur that we associate with it but what it stands for, the ultimate woman. Bowing before the woman who is the epitome of power, peace, motherhood and much more is not very difficult even for an atheist like me. Having started to live in Delhi, for the first time I realized how much I really am attached to the pujas, and how much it really meant to me. And, as I embark on my journey back to Delhi on Ekadashi, the day after Ma left, it seemed strange that the macrocosm of the society felt the same way in bidding her adieu like my family was feeling bidding me goodbye after the same five days. It really is amazing that so many people feel so strongly about just another puja. Ultimately it really stands for bidding our daughter goodbye, and it’s poignant and poetic that so many people across the world invest their emotions not just simply to fulfill or perform some religious duties but simply to be a part of a nostalgia called “home”.
I do not know if it’s symbolic that I witness the Himalayas on my way back where Ma has returned with her kids after the brief break from her heavenly duties, but I do know that for so many other Ma-s it signals the return to their mundane, unappreciated lives. At this point of time, a particular puja in Ballygunge, South Kolkata, comes to mind, who based their puja on the real Durgas, the one who fought the day-to-day asurs, the ones who stood tall and undaunted in the face of seemingly insurmountable adversities. It also signals the lonely sighs of so many mothers whose children are not with her and remembering that her lonely vigil in front of her bedroom window is about to resume.
People say it is now the time of the emancipated woman, the woman of substance, but what we may have forgotten is that it has always been the time for the women of substance. We ignored them because they let us and as soon as they have decided to stand up and be counted we have been forced to take notice. I started this article with my confusion over trust and I find the answer in the one word that stands for the five days of festivities - MA. This monosyllable defines trust and stands for it and maybe it is this word that we will learn to respect which ultimately will transcend into the acknowledgement of women across the world. For, ultimately it is not Indira Nooyi or Vinita Bali who are the only names that should figure in the power-women list but also the faceless multitude of women who redefine courage by just living everyday.
Durga Puja for me is my salute to these women, my kudos to the real women. This puja has come a long way from the Akal Bodhon and has increasingly aligned itself with necessarily being the victory of light over shadow, and has aligned itself with social issues and as long as we continue to bond for these reasons for this festival, the colours will remain bright, every year when Ma blesses us.
I do not claim to understand the meaning of these fleeting neural responses triggered by unknown hormones, but nevertheless we live our lives learning to trust them. It is this paradox that I grapple with, flying 37000ft above sea-level, in the land of clouds where fleeting thoughts hold sway. As, I look out of the small window of this huge aircraft, all I can see is the Himalayas stretched endlessly along the horizon reflecting the red sunbeams of early dawn in its snow-capped peaks. Morgan Freeman in the movie The Bucket List also does something similar while flying at night and exclaims that stars has to be one of the “good-ones” among God’s creations. Being an atheist however I cannot totally agree with the creation aspect but honestly similar emotions flood my mind as I watch this majestic beauty in all its glory. It is an immensely humbling experience, as I feel my worries slipping away before the immensity of what I am experiencing in this routine flight that I am sharing with almost 120 others.
However, in spite of the presence of so many people I am isolated, safe in my anonymity and the advantage of being mutual strangers. There is silence. There is the whirring engine. There are the Himalayas catching clouds in its peaks. And, there is me. I always find an intriguing presence of a sort of pain in every solace, or rather a bit of loneliness in every journey, and this one is no different. I am no longer sure of my emotions, for I no longer trust them. Yet, it is trying to tell me something which I am pushing away, as long as I can. I will not survive another brush with the past, tangible or intangible, and so I hide scared from the one emotion I had sworn to live by.
Most of you, who has bothered to read till here and yet hold the desire to read on, must be wondering about the excessive and continued use of ‘I’ in the previous paragraphs. To be totally honest I do not exactly know myself but all I do know, is that it is but natural to be lost in the streams of consciousness and lose oneself in the world of memories. Yet, another puja arrived, bringing with it, like it always does, the intoxicated dance of kashful and the heady beats of dhak. For me this festival has always been something much, much bigger than just another Hindu ritual. It remains special not just for the grandeur that we associate with it but what it stands for, the ultimate woman. Bowing before the woman who is the epitome of power, peace, motherhood and much more is not very difficult even for an atheist like me. Having started to live in Delhi, for the first time I realized how much I really am attached to the pujas, and how much it really meant to me. And, as I embark on my journey back to Delhi on Ekadashi, the day after Ma left, it seemed strange that the macrocosm of the society felt the same way in bidding her adieu like my family was feeling bidding me goodbye after the same five days. It really is amazing that so many people feel so strongly about just another puja. Ultimately it really stands for bidding our daughter goodbye, and it’s poignant and poetic that so many people across the world invest their emotions not just simply to fulfill or perform some religious duties but simply to be a part of a nostalgia called “home”.
I do not know if it’s symbolic that I witness the Himalayas on my way back where Ma has returned with her kids after the brief break from her heavenly duties, but I do know that for so many other Ma-s it signals the return to their mundane, unappreciated lives. At this point of time, a particular puja in Ballygunge, South Kolkata, comes to mind, who based their puja on the real Durgas, the one who fought the day-to-day asurs, the ones who stood tall and undaunted in the face of seemingly insurmountable adversities. It also signals the lonely sighs of so many mothers whose children are not with her and remembering that her lonely vigil in front of her bedroom window is about to resume.
People say it is now the time of the emancipated woman, the woman of substance, but what we may have forgotten is that it has always been the time for the women of substance. We ignored them because they let us and as soon as they have decided to stand up and be counted we have been forced to take notice. I started this article with my confusion over trust and I find the answer in the one word that stands for the five days of festivities - MA. This monosyllable defines trust and stands for it and maybe it is this word that we will learn to respect which ultimately will transcend into the acknowledgement of women across the world. For, ultimately it is not Indira Nooyi or Vinita Bali who are the only names that should figure in the power-women list but also the faceless multitude of women who redefine courage by just living everyday.
Durga Puja for me is my salute to these women, my kudos to the real women. This puja has come a long way from the Akal Bodhon and has increasingly aligned itself with necessarily being the victory of light over shadow, and has aligned itself with social issues and as long as we continue to bond for these reasons for this festival, the colours will remain bright, every year when Ma blesses us.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Late Monsoons
Autumn retraces its steps
As yellow turns green again…
And, rolling landscapes seen through a speeding train
Helps me find a friend…
My soul clutches on to a new support
As, new rain meets the old tree
And, she surrenders herself
In a bid to finally be free
The moon-washed smoky verandah
Made dreamy after a couple of pegs
As, rains flood the floodgates
Of hidden pains…
We force time to march on…
While watching the lonely bulbul atop the windswept tree
And, feel the last strains of ektara
In, the vaults of lost memories
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Love Revisited
Trying to make sense…
Of the hazy world without glasses
And, understanding that beauty is…
Because it’s ugly otherwise
The beckoning of the faraway horizon
And the memories of an old friend
Drawing me back to an old snap
Forgotten between yellow pages…
The flying lampposts…
And, the cold milestones
Reminds me of a solace
In my distant past
As, I write into the sunset
Of yet another dawn of love
I remember you…my rain
And, the paintings on the heaven above
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