Where We Go After The Fall

Im praying you find this. Like I prayed I'd one day find you. 
I've always wondered what I'd say if I saw you again. If you'd remember me. If you'd remember us. 
I like to hope you would. 
But I also know it'll never happen. 
There's a man I met in China who told me he lights a lamp everyday in front of a photo of his dead wife. That he strikes a bell like any Buddhist does for a God. 
But he wanted me to know that he didn't worship her like he did when she was alive. But that he's grateful she's watching over him. 
I wish I'd known then what to say. 
Something impressive like I could've if you'd been sitting beside me. 

I wish we'd been to Bali. With a couple of journals and souls open to nearly anything. Maybe rented a motorcycle and seen more sunsets than we could have been bothered to count. 
Do you remember that conversation we had about how someone remembers somebody. As a smell, as a taste, as a sight, as a sound or whatever they may fathom. 
I always thought I was a sight oriented person. They eyes to your nose, if I may. 
But maybe we skipped something important. What if you love(d) the person you were remembering? Do the counts increase? 
I certainly do wish I had bottled perfumes of how you smelled on some days. But Im sure I can do without them. 
I think its the small things I hold on to most dearly. That favourite shoe. Your terrible spelling. Your choice of food at that place we'd usually end up at. 
The marks of a dog-eared page on forgotten novels. Those small sticky notes on my laptop screen every morning. 
Droplets of water flowing from you to me from a night in the rain. 

I wish I could ask you now, what you'd like for dinner. I wish I could bring icecream home tonight and not find it tomorrow.
I wish I could roll one, for two tonight. 

I wish you too would be startled by the sound of our son crying now. 

I like to believe that out of all the people in the world, you'd know best that words sometimes don't suffice. 
But there's a diaper that needs changing now. 

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I wrote this out of slight boredom. But I think Im happy with the result. 

The context of the story is left to the reader, ultimately. She could have gone somewhere close and the writer could have over-reacted. Or she could have gone somewhere so far, she possibly couldn't reply if she wanted to. 

I wish I could write a reply to this eventually, to complete the conversation. But its often hard to write as a woman. Or atleast through the words of a woman whose reply would be worth reading. 

Im on a week's (maybe longer) break at Muscat. I think that should be update enough haha

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V
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Now Listening : Futures - Zero 7 and Nights Introlude - Nightmares on Wax
Now Reading : Nothing 
Now Feeling : Disconnected

Officer, My House Is On Fire

Normal things do not happen. 

Maybe you've never heard that sentence before because you weren't really wanting to. But now, you have. And whether you believe in it or not, it has affected you. Like a grain in the beach or a pimple on a teenager, it may be inconsequential, but it is indeed a difference. 

I spend 8 hours a day in a cubicle helping someone fix their electronic devices over the phone. 

I could write scandals on what people microwave. 

And vacuum cleaners really do find all the "dirt".

I've never seen shooting stars. But even if I did, I doubt I'd remember them. 

These are not the first words I spoke to the man now in my house. But they were the words I wanted to scream. 

I noticed he wore an impeccably clean suit. And I've never seen shoes that shined as much as his did. 
And his smile. Like he wasn't even there. 

"Please repeat exactly what you told the police, ma'am", he said. 

And I did. I told him that I got back from the grocers. And my hall was missing its TV. That photo of the scenery that I've never liked was torn. 

There was a fire but the sprinklers weren't on. 

It smelt like freshly popped popcorn and if my house weren't on fire, I'd have found some butter. 

But, there you go, my house was on fire.

I'm not crazy, you know. I thought I was, and I take a pill every night to make sure the tantrums don't happen. The result is that my mind processes emotions with a lag. 

Like an old computer game. 

It took a while for the shock to kick in and see that there was what would classify as an UFO inside my house. 

"Can I ask you a personal question, officer?"

"That's already a personal question, ma'am. But yes, you may."

"Have you wondered if everything is just a joke? That we are the end results of someone's poor sense of humour?"

I remember running down to call the landlord and then dialed 911. But I come back to my house to find it like I should have found it any other day, when I'm back from the grocers. 

I've never upturned my house. I've never moved and I've never packed. But that day I rummaged through my house like a man with a full bladder outside a pay-per-use toilet. (Yes, they exist)

The policeman only asked if I was regularly taking my pills. 

Even anger kicks in late. That's a good thing, most of the time. 

Suddenly, the policeman gets a call, and he takes a long meaningful look at me. The look a goat would give you before you slaughter it. I shall never understand what it meant. 

But I never heard from him again, and here you are. 

He took a sip of the mint tea that I don't remember making and said, 

" I do not like repeating myself so listen hard. And listen well. There are things in our existence, things smaller than your paycheck and larger than my imagination that exist side by side with us. Sometimes as the beggar you see who never ages. Sometimes as the mall employee who always knows where what is. 

Some times as a protector. And sometimes, not. 

It is my genuine desire to stroke your face, take you somewhere fancy and celebrate you for the crazy person that you're not. But alas, I don't have the clearance. 

You will not remember me after this. Neither will you remember the Incident. I'm only a cleanup, making sure you told no one else. 

I wish you well and hope that you always wait a second before you open a door."

**********************************

I close the door but I know not who visited. 

I wonder, though, if there's some popcorn in the house. 

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I'd like to think that you've missed seeing my words on your screen. And I shall further go on to apologize that I've begun writing more but I lose opinion on what to post here. 

I wrote this story as a small reminder that our belief or disbelief doesn't affect a phenomenon's existence.

It may continue to exist or it may have never existed at all. 

If you hands find themselves holding a book called Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman, read a story called Closing Time. You may like it.

And how the hell is it half past March already?

-

V

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Now Reading : Fragile Things - Neil Gaiman

Now Listening : Jeena Isi Ka Naam Hai - Anari

The 4th Movement (Glitch Mob Remix) - Krazy Baldhead

Now Feeling : Bored.

Cloud Storage

What must it feel like to be a memory?
To be stored somewhere, dormant, impotent for an undisclosed and unimaginably infinite amount of time.
To possess the ability to instill nearly any possible cocktail of emotions in somebody.

Come to think of it, we're all memories in a way, already. Where even digitally captured moments can soon turn us to into old dusty photographs. Where we may soon be referred to as someone's better half, someone's father, someone's dear friend.
We live in a cynical world that allows us to partially but still peacefully exist in oblivion and then catches us by the throat and calls us to do our memory-related duties.
But in the very sense of dualism that only you and I may be able to comprehend, we are also, not, memories now.
All that surrounds us, all that we choose to surround ourselves with, the faces we see, faces we choose to love, the faces we unknowingly and uncontrollably admire, are all happening now.
The memories you call upon now and all the related thought processes are all happening now.
Do you not think of that as a good thing?

Im in that extraordinary place where everything is special, and nothing is.
Where nothing is invisible but not everything is entirely visible.
And yes, that makes perfect sense.

I can only hope, that memory or not, I have a good time.

You can carry on now.
-
V

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Although I wrote this only sometime back, they are collected feelings of late today morning and the after-effects of watching The Perks Of Being A Wallflower, which I liked.
As for the title, keeping in mind the content of the piece, is like my pun on how we store memories now.

Now Reading : Darkly Dreaming Dexter - Jeff Lindsay
Now Listening : Again - Archive
                         Red Dust - Zero 7
Now Feeling: Pretty damn good man.

Insanity Can Be Updated

I am in a semi-good mood, so if things seem extra happy, try and not shudder.
I took a trip to Bangalore and I had a good time. A good good time. I think I deserved the break and if what I got there is what I deserved then Im all good with that.
I write this instead of the first piece in a series that I had an idea for. But looking back on it I think its going to have to see the pages of my journal first, before I push my thought-child into the deep scary cyber-blue.
Its something I'd call Sundays with Mythili. Its about 2 people who don't know each other but try to tolerate one another, weekly. The title is inspired by a book I read by an author called Mitch Albom and Mythili is the first female name that popped into my mother's head. Any and all ideas that you'd dare give me, are welcome.

I'd like to start writing more fiction. Id like to make believable and equally unbelievable things merely beautiful, through the medium of my words. If thats a legitimately ok thing to do.

As for the title, I'd like you to picture yourself walking through an empty neighbourhood late at night. Not empty relating to people but empty here *points to your head*. Imagine if that entire junction of roads, mortar and cement were inhabited by the darkest members of your subconscious. Windows would shut as you walk past them. And cat eyes glistening under moonlight wouldn't be sources of fear but infinitesimal rays of sanity. Your lips would dry from the chill of all the lies you occur like chants. And your eyes would constantly adjust to the increasing darkness.
I'd like you to stop walking now. And look around. Look around and find that among all the insanity and craze. And acknowledge that things can indeed be darker. Look at the moonlight diffusing through the wastes of the night and realize that your own insanity can continue to grow. Continue to manifest into something a lot more than an occasional retreat. It could turn into who you really are.
And if you don't find that scary, then I think I'd find you scary. I'd probably have a good time with you and everything, but I'd be scared of you nevertheless.


I recently went to a pub where Baiju Dharmajan performed. I thought I'd never see him perform the songs of Motherjane before I breathe my last but it feels great to check something off my bucket list.


Until next time
-
V
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Now Listening : Two - Ratatat
Now Reading : The Interpreter of Maladies - Jhumpa Lahiri
Now Feeling : OK

Les choses simples

More often than not, I'm unable to put across an idea and it jumps onto my pile of unsaid things simply because I don't know how to start. Maybe its because I don't usually think of the most normal things. If you're thinking about Idli, then you think of Sambhar and Chutney and hence you already know where to begin. If you're thinking love, then you think of your prized possessions and your parents\friends\lovers and things have actual conceptualized beginnings and endings.
Fortunately or I daresay unfortunately, things in my mind don't work so simply. Maybe because our definitions of simple differ. During the context of my writing, simple means I can refer to all my readers, to none of them or maybe even refer to myself in the middle of the post using the word 'you'. But maybe that word doesn't process in your head with the same amount of Serotonin I wish for it to send. Maybe that's my fault. Maybe not. But I will die with the belief that by making your eyes move past these letters, you're almost  here. Somewhere close by, somewhere far. But here, nevertheless. That by using mere words I can make you feel like its just the speaker and the listener in a dim-lit room with our conversation blooming\flowing.
I'm happy that I'll never be ashamed of this belief.
That's a good thing, for any of you nihilists or sadists out there.
Maybe I lost myself here in the last paragraph but you're just beginning to find yourself in here. Where everything is new, and nothing is too far from reach.

A lot of times, when I re-read my old stuff, I feel like I'm looking at a checkpoint-mirror-image of myself. Because of what has changed since that has been written, that guy and I need not be one and the same. Its a delightful experience, truthfully.

With reference to the title, I was watching the 2nd episode of the MTV show called Bring On The Night and seeing them design the place just made me add 3 things to my bucket list. 3 things that I'm okay with being put up in cyberspace.
1. Paint an entire wall\room on my own. Use some spray paint and chalk and what not and kill that shit. Maybe draw a honeycomb pattern, drill some holes, shove some lights inside 'em. And make that shit trippy.
2. Write an actual message and send it through a bottle. Write without inhibition, without worry and more importantly, without sanity and just let it go. Hope and pray that the person who finds it knows English.
3. Make a sign on just trash cardboard, write "Free Hugs" on it and stand in Times Square in NYC or at Trafalgar Square in London or someplace in India where it won't look completely out of place for atleast an hour. Might even add something wacky below the sign like "Ask the Chef for daily specials" ! I'd like to do it with company, but I'm open to negotiation on that bit.

 Try reading this again while listening to a song called Farewell Spaceman by Buckethead. If you'd really do it, go to a room where there's only one small source of light, a candle perhaps, play this song and try to lose yourself inside yourself. It really is that brilliant a song.

Math exam in 2 days. Haha

-
V

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Now Reading - City of God - Collection of short stories
Now Listening - Farewell Spaceman - Blockhead and Verstrahlt - Marteria
Now Feeling - Uh, alright.