Miles to go...

"Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing."
~ Sylvia Plath

Just when I was submitting a creative writing assignment yesterday, something hit me with a quiet yet brutal force. Why is it so hard to believe in oneself? This question does not just ring in my doubt-prone ever fretting head, but the each one of us who has tried to be creative in whichever way. There are times when we just fall flat on our faces refusing to get up. But then we always do, for so huge is the urge to carry on, on this never-ending journey of dejection and lucklessness. The in-between moments, the ones between applaud and despair, are the ones where we question, fear and sometimes lose all hope. For someone like me who suffers from chronic pessimism, that 'sometimes' becomes most of the times. I don't know how good or bad a writer I am (or if I am a 'writer' at all!), but I do want to be someone some day. Even if it is through just one story. Just once. Thus the battle must continue, for how long who can say.

A tiny fragment from a lost moment (it just flew in while I was halfway my rant!):

"She was late that day. Again. Bus no. 256 had left. For someone as blindly confident as a race horse when amid friends, she often found herself miserably vulnerable in such situations. Standing neat in a cerulean dress and black heels, she could sense her flagging self clam up like a morning glory at night. The bus would not be here before another hour. Even the hands of her watch crawled labouriously, ticking reluctantly. Her eager eyes scoured the almost empty bus-stop hoping for someone to appear, for a flicker of that sudden surprise, like a deer appearing on the middle of the road out of green nothingness. She fumbled inside her trendy taupe tote, fidgeting through the tangled mass of keys, Kleenex and cosmetics, fishing out a book. It was a collection of short stories by Margaret Atwood. Books had always comforted her like a mother comforts her bruised child. Words gave her strength, cleared the clutter of emotions in her doubting head. The nagging unease receded into the background like a stale story of the past. She was a lover of words, after all."

Wear my shoes, will ya?

Wear my shoes, will ya?

Black, white, red, tan...

They twirl, tap and trot

They pinch, tear and bite.

Sandals, flip-flops, flats...

Walk a mile in them

Kick the moon, touch the stars.

May be a little jig on the streets?

They are nice you know, my shoes.

They've walked on beds of roses

And ruffled many a golden autumn leaf.

They've felt the chill of seeping rain

And the dull numbing of life from snow.

Wear them, won't ya? My shoes?

They've climbed haughty mountains

And roamed meadows green.

They've hopped through scarring battles

And loitered on days clean.

Wear my shoes damned!

They'll take you there.

Of monsoons and memories

It is almost a year and some stubborn bouts of homesickness since my last trip home. I remember the monsoons had just waltzed in, washing away the dirt and sins of a merciless summer. How deliciously green everything looked! Shining with innocence and stripped of pretense, the very air smelled of love. And by love, I mean that first teenage crush, the galore of unexplained giggles and the ignorance that it can never end. Blessed foolishness!

The feisty gulmohar, in its blazing orangeness, played the perfect coy mistress to the hilt. She was the star of the garden and who were the dashing paper-kite butterflies to resist such charm?! What a grand garden feast it was! The pomegranate tree carried a confusing weight of both the blossoms as well as the tiny fruits, as if in a hurry to greet the rains. Amid all this burst of life surrounding me, a mean viral fever tried hard to dampen my joy, but in vain. The bedside window wasn't good enough when the earth was crooning its most romantic song.

The plump mangoes had fallen of their branches, impatient to rest on the fragrant, rain-kissed earth. How we had devoured them - raw with salt and red chilly flakes, chutney-ed, juiced, pickled. There is something about mangoes that always brings back childhood memories, of summer vacations and grandma's old house. That is the place where stories are told and memories are spun, where parents cease to be themselves and allow you to make a clown of yourself.

The rains also brought a winged guest one afternoon - an enchanting kingfisher. I had never seen one from such proximity and thus was thrilled beyond imagination. It sat on the same branch for about an hour, in its blue finery, as if brooding over its hapless past. Sometimes it made annoying faces and ruffled its beautiful feathers, as if I was a paparazzi interrupting the precious meditation. I was only too fortunate to have a treasure trove of some perfect birdie shots and how effortlessly! As if the kingfisher knew it takes only moments before I would get tired from perfection, it flew away, perhaps to some faraway distant place.

Just like I did after a fortnight.

Lost in cyberspace

Many a times I have been awakened from my blogger-self with a jolt - does anyone read me? My worries and my obsessions? Does anyone really care what book recently addled my brains, or which film made me crave for a slice of that faraway world, or what do baking and nature mean to me? A shaky, doubtful voice answers me - perhaps nobody. I know a few of my friends do follow my ramblings now and then, but then it's just them. Then, of course, I reason with my doubts - I write to give rhythm to an almost stagnant life, I take pictures to unleash the curious cat in me, and I bake to purge myself of the constant hovering demons.

A friend wanted me to write something about this, the dominance of Facebook in our lives. How it has taken us all by the throat making us compulsive slaves to it; and how the old, very personal way of keeping in touch - phone calls - is almost dying. I dare not mention letters, for they have fallen into the 'extinct' category post the email-age. So yes, these days a clever status update or a brilliant profile photo says it all. That's how we know our friends are doing fine - someone went for a vacation to the mountains, someone bought a new car or still better, someone is on the way to recovery from a bad break-up. Sometimes this knowing yet not knowing troubles me, but then I understand since I am a creature from another century, I am beyond any help. As much as I detest this casual, nameless culture born from social networking, I realise I am very much a part of it and something which I cannot do without. With tea and oatmeal, my quintessential breakfast, breaking the day with FBing (yes, that's what we call it!) has also become a compulsive routine.

As I write this, a stream of thoughts cloud my mind - are there any updates on my online course portal? are there any messages from my friends on Facebook? what about that recent post from one of my blogger friends? Yes, everything to do with the online 'me'. It's easy, getting lost in the bottomless pit of cyberspace - a space which has no beginning or end. Once we get in, we become a part of a nameless cosmos, one that spreads across names, cultures and boundaries. Suddenly the real, ticking world becomes hazy and this distant yet alarmingly near world marks our identity. Strange, isn't it?! Maze after maze, profile after profile we surrender ourselves to this enticing depth - Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, Flickr, Google Buzz... The list is endless.

A patio and an oven

This lady sings all by herself, swaying in the wind and sometimes acting coy too when she catches an admirer watching her with a cup of tea.

My sturdy azaleas, all decked up in their summery pink finery.

Geranium, for that much needed 'red' for my patio. 

No tantrums with this lassie!

Blueberry muffins, plump and pretty just out of the oven.

The little neighbour's bike. Blessed childhood!