Freedom Of Thoughts!

Remember the times when you dropped in unannounced and parked yourself at someone else's place for hours, talking and laughing on no topic of public importance and called that friendship? The Mustafa Mustafa days? Ok, those times are over. It was over when as a girl you had to qualify friends as “boy-friends” and “boyfriend,” just so that you are not blamed for polyandry. (adjust gender epithets to suit your needs) It was over when you had to address a random person as “bro,” just in case they develop interest on you or you on them. They can be reborn when one or both of you find partners in life and are quite content with their company that there is no need to peek outside. But, even then there is a very slight tease, a little poke waiting to develop into a nudge and then a grab. I don’t remember the last time I’d a conversation with a single male without them asking for my marital status. As space-y as I’m, I find that part of my life quite difficult to share with others, it ...

As I sit down and think about loitering, I can’t but wonder why I actually need to explain my need to wander around. Even as the concept of settlement and community living emerged as we organized ourselves into civilizations, the need to loiter and savour a moment as an individual is perhaps the most basic of human instincts.  When I was at the school, I used to take my cycle to attend music class, promptly circling the nearby park thrice for no apparent reason. And then, on odd days, I used to stop by at a less-crowded, smelly, old temple, circumambulating the corridors at my own pace, smiling, observing, thinking. Then it became long drawn bus journeys to random places, mostly from terminus to terminus. (autos, share autos and cabs creep me out) Later, my trusted two-wheeler took the spot and the absolute freedom that I, as a woman, felt is incredible. I can go anywhere, anytime I WANTED TO. So, when bicycles are portrayed as symbols of women empowerment by P.Sainath, I tend to...

The show is over. The curtains are drawn. Confetti are descending slowly to the ground, succumbing to the gravitational pull. Yet, like the obsessed Nilambari of Padayappa, I re-read and re-watch Sachin’s farewell speech, again and again. Ideally, like a true cricket fan, I could watch his batting exploits in YouTube, handpicked by experts and fans alike.  I’m reminded of the Kabir Doha “Guru gobind dou khade…’ now. The couplet says: “My teacher and the God have manifested before me, whom would I pay respect to now? I’d bow the teacher first, for he showed me the path to God!” Conceding that I’m hardly ideal, it is only natural that I adore Sachin, who drew me towards cricket, more than cricket itself.  After all, cricket is only a game, probably played and witnessed by fools, as Bernard Shaw once remarked. And, Sachin has only retired from the game. It is good to remind his fans that because we have been reacting as though he has died. In fact, it is a part of us th...

Like an empty tin box, That screams as a thunder falls, There is, Emptiness within; Never too close for a friendly hug, Never too far for a miss you mail, Tracked in and out, Lost tracks; My heart it bellows helplessly, No words to make out; Only the muffled gasps, Courtesy, the rustle of grasses, And the muted sounds, The silky winds; A rhythmic cacophony, Ebb and flow of thoughts, Wants wane, Needs evade, Life exists, Somewhere, Nowhere. A concentrated haven, A parallel world, A synchronous wanderer, The compressed silver cottons, A giant jasmine space-hanging, A pale beige fetish, A puffed butter ball... An uproar of the flame, Vociferous, immutable, immortal, Burning bright, The power awakens, Absolute power weakens absolutely, Ah, how cheerfully one consigns to perdition! The dreamiest, quietest, shadiest, most enchanting one... The laughter is ensconced in every direction, I smile back in contemptuous reverence. Reflection of your black shadow, Illuminates me to glory! Am flatte...

May be, It was a wisp of smoke, Or the white of your eye, Or a flow of snow, A dove's feather Or a parade of phantoms, Or an angel's robe Or, just clouds. ~ Bhargavi (29/08/2008)

I am lost, Not to be found. Lost in the woods, Without any life, they say, Last in the woods, To have found some, I add. I am lost, I hear my own voice, Through the waters of life, Within my heart, From the earth, From the coffins. I feel my own touch, Yours  Supplanting mine, Suffocating mine. I see my own self, Up there, Above the buildings Taller than the pines, Over the moon Amongst the stars, Bright and Blue; Down here, Between thy toes, Beneath your foot, Bare and Bruised. I think my own thoughts, Bemused by every single one of it, Cutting across yours, Hurting you. Of your half truths and Whole lies, Which one do I take? To become a lesser hypocrite; Not sure, Of either this or that, Not sure, Of either me or you; Not bothered, Neither you, Nor I. Not bothered, To reason it why, I am honest, I am lost, Not to be found.