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City of Lights

It's a chilly night.
I rub my palms together, draw my jacket tighter over my shoulders and hug myself real tight. I am leaning over the balcony of our apartment in Dubai, and I look as far beyond the horizons of the city as I possibly can, just to let the sights and sounds coalesce into a happy place in my soul...feel the cool breeze tease my hair in a whimsical flight of fancy maybe.

I'm mesmerized by the silver linings of the skyscrapers glowing decadently against the ebony black night, the beautiful city lights that run the course of the horizon in a blurry haze, and the tranquility of the night so in harmony with that which is settling over me presently.

The chilly wind orchestrates the flow of my hair, and from a distance, the wind carries upon its wings distant strains of peace and resilience that lull me into a deep reverie of years long past. Faceless faces and beautiful harmonies keep me company for the remainder of the night.

Outside, the city that never sleeps is showing signs of turning in for the day. I draw my jacket tighter over me, hug myself, and lean over the silver rails to gaze at the city snoring softly under the hazy glare of the city streets.

It's nice to slow down every once in a while.
Pretty therapeutic, actually.

Those Winter Sundays

Sometimes you come across poems you desperately wish you'd written.

'Those Winter Sundays' by Robert Hayden, for me, is one such poem.

Here's how the poem goes: 

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know

of love's austere and lonely offices? 

***

Now how beautiful was that?

Dear Stranger

We knew each other only for a day.
And yet, our conversation flowed smoothly, like a bicycle wheel in perfect trajectory. We talked about everything we could think of, completely unaware of the fact that up until a few moments ago we were complete strangers in awe of each others' presence.

So many things still remain to be said.
Maybe we'll save that bit for the next time we cross paths again.
Something tells me we will.

Till then, dear stranger, farewell.

It was enchanting to meet you.

Juggling Elephants

Sometimes you think you can handle everything on your own.You believe that you've got what it takes-the guts, the grit- to go through the weight of the situation without anyone's aid, and come out alright.

But sometimes, though, things can get a little overwhelming. They get too big for you to handle. You'll soon realize that your hands are far too small and weak to be juggling all those elephants; that sooner or later, you're going to be crushed under the weight of it all. One careless move, and you better believe that your soul is going to hover above a dozen confused elephants.

At such trying times, it never hurt anyone to be just a tiny bit scared and ask for directions. Or ask someone they really trust to give their blues a listen.

Hey, you never know.
You might just find the fuel you need to keep your motor running.

Hidden Places

Sometimes
Those hidden places like
That old corner on Times Street
Come creeping into the crowded subway
Of my consciousness, and I
Am once again reminded of
times, happy ones, with you
Walking right beside us,
Cracking jokes about the two
Of you, your booming laughter
Floating above the dust, the smog, and
Past the din of the busy city folk,
More pervading than any Arabic
Scent perfuming  the air,
And far more therapeutic.


Those hidden places like
That old corner in Times Street
Are now no more; dumb,
demolished, crumbled bricks lie in the backdrop
Of new, glossy statures-
A perennial reminder of you,
And all our times with you:
Lost but not forgotten,
Destroyed in reality, but
Fortified, once in so often a while
In spirit and memory; intangible
In presence, but omnipresent
In knowledge.

On nights like these,
Those hidden places like
The old corner on Times Street
Come bursting through the patched up folds
Of my unconsciousness,
Just to remind me that there was
Such a happy time once, not so very long ago,
And pretty soon, if I'm good enough,
There shall be such happy times again,
Only more eternal, more real, wherein I,
Like you, shall be happy, loved, cared for
By your side forever more, booming with laughter,
Shouting in glee, drawing excited bubbles of pure happiness
From the inner most recesses of my heart,
Like never before. 

That Old Woman

She was old and frail, with an arched back. She drew her scarf over her forehead as she waited. When she raised the palm of her right hand over her squinty black eyes to shield herself from the mid-day heat, the long, loose sleeves of her abaya slipped to the sweaty  valley at the end of the forearm, and revealed a hard, brown, bony hand. The other arm was struggling to carry big, bulky bags of old clothes she'd gathered from her begging rounds.

She was exhausted. She had left her sickly children back at home earlier during the day, and had visited some fifty houses or so in under two hours. Some turned her out. Most of them didn't even bother opening their doors for her. But still, she always found one or two houses with sympathetic folks who would acknowledge her presence with a rupee or two. She always left a prayer for them.

Today, however, was not a very good day. Although she had managed to get a few old clothes for her children, she was too tired to continue her long and unwinding walk back home, what with her swollen feet and the blazing heat. She had enough change in her handkerchief to spare her an autorickshaw ride for about half the way home. The other half...she'd think about that later. It was too hot to think. She was feeling dizzy from hunger and thirst too.

An autorickshaw was whirring its way towards her. She picked up her bulky bags, and raised a bony hand to hail it. The driver took one look at her, and sped by. She refused to take offense.

Another autorickshaw refused to take her, and yet another. They seemed to have no trouble offering their service to well-off families or other individuals with bulky shopping bags, though.
The heat was starting to get worse, just as the sharp pain in her back and heels.

After an hour of waiting, she decided she was wasting her time and energy. The old, frail woman with the arched back picked up her bulky bags of worn out clothes, and began her journey back home with swollen feet and aching arms, under the blazing heat of the sun, muttering to herself:
for my children...I must not collapse for the sake of my children...

Shaking Off The Parentheses

I do not wish to explain myself. 

I do not wish to be bound on both sides by invisible parentheses wherever I go.

My actions, my values and my thoughts are clear and self-explanatory,

just as I like them to be.

Chase that Dream

If you have a dream, chase it.
Even if you feel like your knees are going to give in.
Even if you feel like your lungs are going to burst out.

Chase it till it's all yours.

Act Now

Here we are throwing away our lives to the demons when there are so many out there clinging onto ventilators to facilitate the next breath they take...

Think about the gravity of their plight for a while.

Can you even begin to imagine the situation when breathing, which comes so involuntarily to you, becomes a herculean task?

Can you imagine a situation where you don't know whether you'll get to see your loved ones within the next few seconds?

Can you imagine having only a couple of hours to live, and a lifetime of hopes and dreams crumpled into a ball of absolute nothingness?

Can you even begin to imagine all those confusing, saddening thoughts (or lack thereof) that'll be running around in incoherent loops in your head at that point of time when help is an impossible proposition?

Can you imagine bidding good-bye to the people you love, the things you love and the chances you'd always wanted to take, but had put off for a 'better' time?

Do you still want to waste your precious time brooding over something that honestly amounts to nothing?

Do you still want to pursue and lose wonderful relations over all those material activities that you can't even take to your grave?

I didn't think so either.

Now and today and this moment is all you have to make everything count.

Tell your dear ones that you love them, unconditionally.

Compliment the person you've always admired.

Be kind.

Smile, even through your tears. There's nothing more beautiful than a person who puts his/her worries beneath him/her when the going gets tough.

Apologize, no matter how difficult it is. Don't let your ego get in the way of a beautiful relationship before it's too late.

Take risks, make mistakes. And most importantly, learn from them.

Realize your goals. Be who you were cut out to be.

Remember, your health is your biggest asset.
Make the most of it before it's your chance to turn in.

There's no time left to lose.
Act now.

Inner Peace

Being at peace with your inner self makes every other problem seem a lot less terrifying.
Prayer gives you that inner peace.
You hand over all your problems to Allah, and He lifts you up from everything that's weighing you down with a great buoyant force that leaves you feeling as light as a feather.
My God, who wouldn't want to partake in such a wonderful exchange!

I'll See You

One day, I'll see Your face

As closely, and as sure

As I see the big, bright

White moon from my window sill.

What awe awaits!

If...

If all of us were to look like our souls and spirits for a day, I wonder how many of us would truly look beautiful, and how many disgustingly repulsive. I can only venture so far as to propose that whatever be the difference in turn out, the results will, no doubt, leave us utterly stumped! 

Absentia

Why do you come to me
Like an enigmatic dream
Just to draw back, ever so swiftly,
Like the waves?

Why won't you, just this once,
Stand by my side
On the shores of my memories
And stay?

Why don't you quit residence
In your heavenly abode just for today?
Walk hand-in-hand with me,
Look at the sea shells scattered all around
Take in the earth's spirit, the one
You seem to have forgotten,
And tell me all there is to know
About life and living
About death and dying
About love and loving
About pain and suffering
Please. Don't spare anything.

But departed spirits can never let slip
The secrets of the cosmos
To the mortal tenants of the Earth.
Is that why, every once in a while,
You come to me like a dream,
Just to sojourn briefly like the waves?

SubhaanAllah!

You see rain.

And then you realize you're witnessing Allah's Mercy taking the most tangible,

the most beautiful elemental form.

And then you feel so honoured.

Oh so very honoured!

The Optimist

You tell me I'm no good?

You better be prepared to see what I'm capable of.

You tell me I'm messed up, lost and confused?

The darkest hour is just before a beautiful dawn, pal.

You tell me I'll never rise up to the challenge?

I'm not as pessimistic about it as you are.

You tell me that I'll never amount to much?

I have more faith in myself than you do about me. 

And that's all I'll ever need.

You tell me that the rope I'm walking on is too thin?

All the more reason to do it. 

You tell me that I'm too smug and over-confident?

I think the terms you're looking for are 'bold' and 'spirited'.

You warn me that my limitations will hold me back?

I'm not held back by you, am I?

You tell me...wait, you're running out of words to throw at me?

Well. Now that I've made myself crystal clear,

I guess I'm done talking.

*

Sehnsucht

Everything is still as a picture outside. Apart from the occasional chirring of lonesome crickets, there is pin drop silence all around. It's hard to believe how quiet it is, considering how it had rained quite heavily just an hour ago.

The dew drops caught in between the recesses of the iron-gate look like tiny little pearls in the dim light that's streaming in from the house across the street. The puddles on the road glisten in the gloomy light and catch my fancy every now and then.  

The wholesome silence of the night- which was beginning to offer appetizing fodder for introspection and contemplation, mind you - is suddenly disturbed by a sunburst of sound and light.

SLOSH!  A car just sped by, strong beams of its headlight intruding the stillness first, followed by the splashing of the tires against the luminous puddles. The car turns around the corner, and everything slowly settles into place again...not without grumbling a little first. 

I don't know what it was that triggered it, but something within me gave in; the feeling of tranquility that had kept me company before the unexpected intrusion started to crumble into tiny little shards of longing...for a nameless something or someplace that exists somewhere in the ancient tomb of memories buried in the back of my mind and that shows up in all its naked glory only in my dreams...

Sometimes you don't miss a certain something or someone or someplace. Sometimes you miss a body, a collection, a mass of people, places and things that you used to know...

Other times, though, you don't just miss the familiar. You long for something or someone or someplace that you don't even know but can't help missing. You long for a world so different from your own, despite the fact that your world's the only one you've ever known. You're not conscious of what it is that you're pining for, but the feeling's there all the same...strong and powerful. It's like nostalgia, only with a twist: instead of missing someone or something you used to know, you find yourself unconsciously aching for that extra something that you desperately want to catch hold of, and which will help you rise above the helplessness you're feeling.

The Germans have a word for it, thankfully; sehnsucht represents a profound feeling of longing, of perfecting the imperfect in life; a desperate yearning for a land far, far away, a land unlike any earthly domain with which we are acquainted.

It's still quiet outside. The puddles lie dormant; there's not even a ripple in sight. The trees stand still. The tiny dew drops scattered on the leaves and the gate glisten like stars in a forgotten universe. Somewhere in the distance, a stray dog lets out a long, shrill howl... and then silence engulfs the remainder of the night.

Maybe this feeling will go away after a while. 

Seeking the Invisible Player

I know I've heard it before. That strange melody that keeps haunting my senses... that tune so awe-inspiring and frightening at the same time, like the shrill howl of a wolf at midnight. That heavenly serenade that enraptures you mind, body and soul- like the cries of a forest bird in a mystical land, or like fairies mourning the departure of a sensuous night. That melodia so much like the wind that sends half-human whispers as it knocks relentlessly at every door, that harmonic strain which seems so familiar and yet so far off, so endearing yet so maddening...

If  I could meet the soul working the lyre that seems to enchant me so much, I would never let her leave the vicinity of my being. Until and unless, ofcourse, she teaches me how to work the chords that make up that beautiful, if melancholic, refrain that elevates the senses... and alleviates all doubt.

Oh, you of incoherent harmonies! Won't you reveal yourself to me and put me out of my misery?

Someday...

Someday...I'll become what you became to me.

In Time

Let's start again, I think to myself.

I tear out a page from my lockwire journal. I crumple it with all my might. And then I hurl it at the bare, resolute walls of my room. It barely makes a sound; the lowly scraping of the page against the wall was utterly pitiful considering the force with which it was flung.

 The wind  comes rushing in to cushion its fall, as if to say: there, there...it's not your fault, honey. She tends to do that sometimes; don't take it personally. 

And she carries the crumpled ball of wasted pulp to a far corner, where it could sulk in peace.

I am disappointed. What did you expect? A voice asks me, its tone bitter and patronising. 

Did you expect that ball of nothingness to create a dent in the wall, to blow up the place into shreds with that herculean throw of yours?

Yes! I scream out to the ridiculing voice in my head. Wait...no! I didn't want the paper to create a dent or blow up the place. Only just the words in it. I wish...I just wish... 

I stop thinking. I realise I don't even have the energy to dwell upon what it is that I'm pining for, what it is that I want to get out... but can't.

 I look at the vast expanse of white before me, twirling the pen in my hand. Like a painter before his majestic canvas, I see possibilities. Colours and shapes, forms and frames, patterns and structures, scenarios and landscapes come rushing into my head, but they don't last- not even one  of them. Like a flash of lightning, they're gone before I can recover from the blurry haze clouding my eyes. 

Traitors! That's what you all are! 

I rest my back on the easy chair. I take my spectacles off and fling it carelessly onto the dark wood of my study table; it lands next to my pen, dismissed and disposed of a long while ago.
My fingers come to the rescue; they pave soothing trails of comfort through my hair, their touch consoling, relaxing and...elevating, even.

I look at the blank pages before me, waiting to be filled. I close my eyes.

In time.

It'll be filled in time. 

No pressure.

The chair scrapes against the granite floor when I get up for a full, well needed stretch. 

I close the journal without even looking at it.

I was lost in some reverie for a full minute before I came to realise what a mess I'd made of the place. I pick up the bits and scraps of paper and deposit them in a hamper under my table, brimming with sister pages.  I could use the remains of the paper sometime to scribble an idea, record some amusing word I'd discovered. They could be salvaged with ease in time. 

The balls of paper sighed as I shoved the crumpled pieces in, shuffling amongst themselves to make space for burying one more brave warrior who'd come back unsuccessful- and barely inked. 

In time, I chant as I switched off the lights of the study, passing a numb look at my table.

Just give it some time.

In Prostration

I close the door

Draw the blinds

Spread out the prayer mat

And plunge straight in for prostration.

My forehead presses hard against the floor

Hot tears stream down my cheek 

And fall, with full consent 

Onto the prayer mat

Softening, moistening 

 The smooth velvet of the rug

And the stiff, arrogant, cold fabric 

Of my heart.

SubhanAllah!

Glory be to Allah.

SubhanAllah!

More fervently this time.

SubhanAllah!

I just can't seem to say it enough.

Alhamdulilah!

All praise to Allah.

Alhamdulilah!

For blessing me with everything I need and more.

Alhamdulilah!

For loving me despite the wayward mortal that I am.

AllahuAkbar! 

Allah is the Greatest.

AllahuAkbar!

Everything in this world will one day perish, except for Him alone.

AllahuAkbar!

Verily, to Him do we belong and to Him do we finally return.

Feel like you're losing focus in your prayers? Then this is for you!

Glowing in the Dark

It's hard to put up a brave front when everything around you is crumbling into a depressing pile of debris. It's even harder to stand and stare at the dark, serpentine road of nothingness and NOT breakdown into spasmodic fits of tears. But when you've come to that unexpected fork in the road- where you're confused beyond your own good- you know things just got a lot more worse.

Sometimes it feels like there's no hope. It feels like there's just no way out of this confusion, this madness. It feels like death- only there's no resolution, no peace, no justice. It's as if a thousand maggots are at work, gnawing at the seams of your sanity, slowly loosening the sedge that helps you keep your sunny side-up. It feels like you're drowning in a sea of despondency, and the weight of your despair pulls you down deeper, deeper into the unknown, into the nameless- despite all your efforts to keep yourself alive.

And it seems like it's so hard to keep up the fight. It seems like you're losing your grip with every step you take. And it's so much more harder when your biggest fears are right there in front of you, taking tangible forms in reality; a bunch of bullies that have you thrust against the lockers, laughing right at your face, the spittle on their lips evidently mocking you and and your hapless, hopeless struggle against them.

And when all I hear around me is the thrashing of a tempest-struck sea against the fragile shore, when all I see are a gazillion hurricanes sucking the life and blood out of everyone's name and property, when all I feel  is the excruciating pain of my deep, rubescent wounds, I take a final look at the One who is up there- guarding, protecting, overlooking me and every speck of creation in the universe- and I passionately fall down  prostrate before the Magnificent Lord of the Heavens and the Earth.

 In the darkness around me, it's only me and Him. I call upon His glorious name and pray- pray for the wayward, for the damned, for the lonely, the lost and the confused- till a feeling so powerful empowers me, overwhelms me and which allows me to rise above my pain.  And then I do. I rise, hopeful, elated, enlightened and jubilant that though there seems to be no way out of this labyrinth, His light will guide me, you and everyone else to peace and resolution soon enough- as long as we hang on tight and don't give up on our fight.

Beautiful  is the soul that lights up the lives of everyone around her when her own world is falling apart. Beautiful is the soul that can smile through her burning tears, the soul that fights adamantly against her vices and fears, the soul  hopeful of a brighter, beautiful tomorrow even though today looks a lot more scarier and confusing than yesterday.

Beautiful are these souls-the ones that truly
glow in the dark.

Friday Morning Musings

What happens to the world right before the crack of dawn?

Magic. 

And plenty of it.

If you live in Kerala, or in any other part of the world where Mother Nature dances to the tune of her own song, you're in for some treat. And if you live in a metropolitan city and wake up to the sound of traffic or the cooing of pigeons like I did all my life before being settled here, don't worry. I'll try to recapture the magic in the only way I can, through writing, though I will never be able to do my sense of sight justice. 

The world as we know it is completely something else at dawn. Everything that's under the serene gaze of the night sky- the trees, the birds, the wind, the earth- is at peace and committed to complacency after twilight. Calmness reigns over the subjects of the earth with her powerful trident, poking into place anything that seems to be teeming with life. For the remainder of the night, things are as still as a picture. 

But when it's an hour or two before the sun is scheduled to rise, things start changing slowly, imperceptibly. 

The earth regains its moist, russet texture. Soft winds start to gently tap the creatures of the earth as if to awaken them, to remind them that the Great Lord wants them up and full of life, so that they become manifestations of signs, miracles for the intellectual human to reflect and wonder upon. 

Before the call to azaan (early morning prayer for Muslims), the birds open their beady eyes and start chirping, praising, glorifying, exalting the honourable name of God. Trees start nodding in agreement, and the tallest and most magnificent of them in stature, the Coconut tree, raises her head in praise of the glorious Master of the Heavens. And then? Then the world waits for the magic to happen.

And it does. The first light of dawn breaks open across the sky, like a firework of bright light, and  it illuminates, irradiates the world of sorrow and darkness and transforms it into a morn of new beginnings and hopes. Roosters crow in awe at the sight, calling out encores so loudly that the world might be informed of the magical transformation taking place all around them. Birds start to chirp and sing songs of bounty and praise, honey bees buzz around, butterflies mill about blossoming flowers and eagles glide across the magnificent sky as the world breaks into a cacophony of beautiful sights and sounds.

 And with that final stroke of magic, the Lord reveals the lush greenery of the trees and the verdant fields, the azure sparkle of the rippling streams, and the grandeur of His creation that was veiled in darkness and mystery all night long. But alas! Caught under the spell of slumber the livelong night, we wake up to find that we'd missed out on all of that magic, all of that splendour and all of those finishing touches on the final glossy picture we wake up to. 

But I've got a solution. :D If you're guilty to have slept out on all the magic that'd happened out there, keep calm. Just buy a ticket for the Dawn Special that's screening tomorrow, and sit back, relax and prepare to be bewitched! 

Have a great morning and a wonderful day! :)

  

A New Flâneur in Town

I've always been engaged in people watching. I've tried to trace back and place this particularly amusing- if not entirely peculiar- avocation in some formative part of my childhood, only to have failed miserably. Perhaps it's one of the perks that comes with the whole package of being a reserved person, someone who'd keep herself amused by watching the quirky ways of her human counterparts. Whatever the case maybe, all I know is that there's no greater source of pleasure for me (apart from reading and writing, duh!) than catching a glimpse of the everyday lives of strangers, if only for a little while. 

And that brings me to the title of this post. One of my favourite words from the ever-burgeoning lexicon of the English language and recently discovered title for yours truly, 'flâneur' is an awesome term for a soulful urban wanderer. Your average Romantic soul, someone who strolls the streets of cities to savour the sights, the sounds and the ragtag crowd of bubbling, bumbling common folk. I fell in love with the word the moment I heard of it in Phil Cousineau's article for the Huffington Post. And in case you're wondering, yes, I'm a self-confessed geek for anything literary. Gotta love words! :D

Well, what makes this title so endearing to me is the unassuming nature of the flâneur. The guy doesn't want to be savoured by the city or be recognised as one set apart from the crowd. He wishes to savour the city in all its artificial glory instead,  wandering around town at a leisurely pace, taking in breaths of life from passers by and wondering what it's like to walk in their shoes for once. 

And so it is with me. When I'm walking in the over-populated streets of my district in Kerala, that's all I do. Walk miles and miles on my own two feet but with different slippers provided to me by the distinct faces in the crowd every other mile. I am a lady in a long, flowing abaya bargaining with the street vendor once, and then I turn into the bony, frail man stooping like a sandstone arch over what little he has to offer in a makeshift shop with a shattered, tattered tarpaulin for a roof. I become different entities, different souls as I wander the streets of this place where everyone is really just trying to secure a space of their own. 

And as I identify with random strangers trying to make a living, trying to push through the jostling crowd to meet their personal ends, I become one with the crowd, one with this mass of people I have never seen and will never see again in life, and yet it feels just right, like I fit in perfectly somehow, like a clasp on button on a vintage purse. 

 Flâneuring (who says you can't make up your own words?) my way through the streets, I realize I love the smell that the wind carries of floral fragrances, scents of delicious Keralite cuisines floating above the people as invisible but just as existent as the smog around them, the incoherent chatter of people as they whiz and trail about to meet their materialistic destinations , and the very essence of a world of differences living together in comfortable harmony. 

Watch out, folks. There's a new flâneur in town and she's not afraid to stroll about, seeking pleasure and inspiration  in the mundane activities of a vague, crazy crowd. :)