Going on 28

The puppy in the post below is now 3 years old and so is my abandonment of writing. 

I will be back before the tea turns cold. 

I'm not sure I know what I'm looking for but it's probably there somewhere in the space between my lips. Written somewhere on those post-its behind me, somewhere between all those plans and never getting there. Somewhere between being acutely conscious that I care and not lifting a finger for it. For all the worldly contradictions that I represent, I elect myself a sovereign sober republic. 

I have no clue how to revive writing. I went through my old posts and although I can't seem to shake off this intensely dramatic sentence phrasing style and random overcast prophecies, I have had some clever insights in a few places there. 

More later. Gotta go catch up the fabulous life. Tea-time over. 

The many names of Jalebi

In addition to the name Jalebi, our girl is addressed to in many ways. Some:

Her European name: Jellybean

Colloquial Assamese: Julapi, Jilepi

French: Madame Julliet

Mexican: Jalebi, like Jalapenos.

American: J-Bee

Moslem: Mehjebeen

Bihari: Jalwa

Nickname(s): Jelfi, Jalibi, Jelu, Salebi, Jelpi (?)

Secret name: M*****A

Other name(s): Coco, Chocho, Mocha (sigh, predictable.)

Also responds to: "Who wants a coooookie?" and "Who did?!"

This list continues to evolve and grow. 

You live

Between the chaotic dullness of everyday nothings.

In the space between two thoughts.
In the pink-purple-indigo-orange overcast dusk.

In the first sweet, smoky sip of tea.
Within awkward silences.
The place between ticking temporal knives and
their deliberate postponements.

When the song strains towards its climatic finish and
cryptic lyrics reveal themselves.
In obscure realms of random memories
projecting themselves at random moments.

In between delicious, wicked words in print.
In late night confessionism.

In the wind - with no beginning and no end.
In many textures of shadows.
In manic/depressive dispositions.
In words, disguised as friends.

In surfaces that reflect an idea or two.
In the profound belief
of perceptual differences.
Well, in differences, of all sorts.

In those fleeting moments of affirmation
that backtrack before long into playful stupidity.
In the graph of that crazy lovable spiral.

In the fluttery dilation of pupils.

Futility.

Morbid sensibility.

And it's abandonment.

And especially thrive
within
instinctive
elemental
wild/gentle
cautious/unabashed
mind-melting
thought-pixelating
EXCRUCIATING
euphemisms.

Rainy Tuesday night

A few days ago, two of my very good friends got engaged to each other and I went to be a part of their big milestone in life. A smiling, happy, young, blissful couple on the throes of their new life together and fiercely excited about it. Both families bustling with so much energy that some didn't know what to do with themselves. Elders bestowing benign smiles on the couple, boisterous aunts drunk on wine and letting loose some hectic dance moves, tanked up to the nostrils with festivity and jewellery, merry-making, ritualizing at every opportunity, officially satisfied with the union of two kids that were always just meant to be a large part of each other's life.

So, last Friday morning, I found myself on a train to this event. I had a single berth and next to me were a family of four. A young father constantly on his phone who I suspected was having an affair with someone else while a haggled wife tried to contain the kids - an infant boy and small girl of about 10- but I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt when I later heard him sing lullabies to the little kid, putting him to sleep and dedicatedly wiping off the infant's puke from their suitcases, compartment floor and own pants. Some time during my 8-hour journey, the wife asked me, "Didi, what time are we reaching?" I wondered how much older I looked to her or was it just a form of addressing a woman of similar age? I bought two books by the late Khushwant Singh, Train to Pakistan and The Company of Women, simply because I was guilted into buying them by the vendor, who gave me a painfully impatient stare while I checked out the books he was carrying. Many amputees thronged the train, begging for money, with almost identical amputations which really made me doubt the imagination of the begging racket mafia. After giving away some of my money to some of the earlier ones, I just shook my head at the ones who came in late. Hijras aggressive as usual marched up and down the compartments and left me alone. I was glad because if they had stopped at my berth, I would have struck up a conversation about the rights of the transgender community and whether they were aware of any people in this region who worked for them. At one point, the wife and husband went off somewhere while the woman politely asked me -didi- if I would watch her daughter for a while. That's when the little girl proceeded to tell me which of her subjects she has not done her holiday homework for, among other things. 

At the engagement, I displayed a sufficient amount of enthusiasm, not that I had to really try because I was truly happy that my friends had made it through the odds and were going to happily be at each other's throats for the rest of their lives. I dressed myself in a pink, very modern-looking mekhela sador, went through the hair/make-up/heels/jewellery drill and pulled off a decent job considering I had actually not put in this much effort in my appearance in about 4 years now. I tried my best to calm down the to-be-bride when she was freaking out about being late to the event but I don't think she wanted my advice ("relax, it's YOUR engagement, stop taking calls now, we're just an hour late"). After about an hour, when the rings had been exchanged, I made my way to the bar and got myself a glass of wine and sat down because my feet were already aching. The night turned out to be a pretty happy one, with a lot of dancing, bootlegging after the bar was closed, being pulled up by the relatives of my friends to dance, obliging, last minute hunting for Bollywood music which was on demand, giving and receiving compliments, delaying dinner, taking photos and the other regular wedding-time shabangs. 

Something about the significance of my two friends getting engaged managed to put me in an incredibly strange mood the next day. We went out for lunch, shopping and dinner with both the families and I was exhausted the whole day, looking terrible and feeling irritated. At one point, when we were driving from one mall to the other, I longed for a cigarette and was struck by the premonition that I had completely destroyed myself, past, present and future, with my choices, habits and thoughts. I was deeply pitying my own tragic affair called life for about 10 whole minutes, while everyone chattered on in the car, and made a note to blog about this particularly disturbing feeling. My legs were tired from all the walking, my face and hair so greasy and disappointing and my responses were becoming lesser and lesser obliging and enthusiastic, as I dully nodded along to apologies for drunken dancing by aunts and the mother-in-law-to-be the previous night. I could no longer bear the formality or the saccharine since I had my own in-head chaos to deal with, while the families wondered how to communicate with this strange, quiet, chain-smoking, single Assamese girl. 

What triggered my chaos on that day was something negligible, that ought not to be mentioned here, for self-preservation measures, at which I am pro. It did however spiral me into seeing clarity, astral-like, what would be of me if I did not take charge of my self right now. The whole trip had jolted me into some sort of mid-life (yes, because I am surely not going to make it to a hundred) crisis, with graphic detail of my own mismanagement of resources and opportunity, time wasted and currently being wasted, degeneration, reality- bitten and rabid form, abandonment and regrets, etc. spirals of dubious nature. How far was I willing to allow this chaos to perpetrate though? And with such a passive, meaningless trigger (that shall not be mentioned) nonetheless. 

I will let it perpetrate to the extent of a carpe diem-like fervour to end my blogpost and go do something else, rise tomorrow to forever change the way my life is directed right now. In a small world, on an exceptionally rainy Tuesday night, at the right place and time. Hazzah. 

Status quo

I haven't been doing much lately, in terms of productivity.
But that doesn't mean anything, because there's always something on in my head.
Either planning, retracing, dreaming, procrastinating.
I have a lot going on, just nothing to show for it, yet.
But if you believe me and take my word for it, I might tell you what it is.

That's kind of the basis of everything to me right now. Me getting by on my own word. Those castles in my head that get visitors, whenever I see that someone wants to hear me out. But I do spend time mapping it all out. Replaying something or imagining something- endlessly in those rooms. I've found that I am unable to have long conversations with anyone because I lose interest while they are talking and find myself roaming around those large, airy rooms of my own. And when it's time for my response, I try not to say the first thing that comes into my mind.

I probably can't stop talking about myself. It's really surprising that when I'm in the company of some specific people, I don't. Does that make me a total hypocrite? Because I probably would like to say something or ask some questions that bubble up inside me and mostly have to do with myself. Is that cowardly? Or is it just something to do with my equation with them?

So, these rooms are large. Pretty well organised. Designed. Some of them are visited way more than the others. And I really think one of them just contains all the things I can't have. One for sure is filled with all the ways I can be the boss of everything. One is all the raison d'etres I have ever felt.

 Do I have castle-to-castle rivalry? Well, yes. Favouritism.

Maybe if it wasn't for my recent lack of productivity, I might have had to keep dousing raging flames in one chamber and then the next. I've had warped visions in some, hazy and smoke-filled, confused. Some with violent flood, damage and destruction. Some morbid with ugly, wild, gesticulating projections on every side, closing in every time I walk in. Some plain painful. Some so intensely beautiful and musical that they end up repressed and locked for fear of losing them.

So it's really nice to be able to enjoy all of this at a simmering temperature. That really sounds a lot like coming-of-age to me. I understand now what it means to be aware of your own self, no matter what ecstatic or pitiable state it may be in. The rooms are no longer random, but chosen, deliberated and necessary. The frequency of their operation is not only emitted but also absorbed. The time taken to understand this is perhaps the most crucial absorption of all. And that each time they are occupied by a conscious me, they evolve.

Nothing beats the human spirit more than change. It's the one unstoppable force, this linear nature of time. And no one can put any numbers on that. No one can read these hopeless numbers.

It's infinitive then, my lack of productivity.  I can call it an imperative journey, an astral must-do, if you ever want to hover above the grind of institutionalized productivity.

Thoughts?  

Follicular - The movie

An AQUEOUS HUMOUR production

FOLLICULAR is a documentary film about the ‘all types that make the world’. In cities and towns where appearances, fashion forwardness, conformity, or the lack of which, marks popular judgement and social constructs, Follicular is an independent film that takes a look at the relative individuality of people.

We introduce the film through commonplace sights and sounds- everyday instances that shape our public personality and perception. The crew explores people of different ages, backgrounds and cultures, with very different ideologies and self-concepts. This is apparent in the three different segments of the film. Follicular is a probe into the consciousness of individuals through a basic physical manifestation, hair. Dressed up, dressed down, non-existent or in irreconcilable conditions, it documents an uncanny exploration of this physical attribute and its internalization.

Follicular is the maiden project of Aqueous Humour productions. On sultry and humid home-town afternoons with friends and a pack of cigarettes, the mind tends to wander around people, conversations, impressions and ideas. Then one tends to make a movie.

-June 2013

Here's also a rough, RANDOM, unfinished trailer of the film, with no subtitles, bad quality sound and confusing edit, which does no justice to its content whatsoever. Still, since we've got no better option at the moment and are very lazy to resume work on this project, watch:

Also, to redeem ourselves, here's a clip of the introduction/opening of the film. May be equally confusing without the remaining the 47 mins of the film, but what the hell. Excuse low upload quality. I've had to reduce from 13.9gb to 40mb!

Music of Follicular by Peter Cat Recording co.

The reason the entire movie isn't online is because last year we had decided to send it out to the film festival circuits once it was complete. Well, it's still not complete. We need to put in one more little clip somewhere in between, subtitle the whole movie, get it approved by the censor board and cut a good trailer, unlike the earlier one. That's a lot of work. And we be lazy. And distracted. And frustrated that we can't get this done with. Vicious loop. All there on a post-it that I look at everyday. 

Ghosts

'Leave that one on', I said, just in time.

Your fingers left the switch. The lamp glowed. Soft, warm and swaying slightly.
As if it were me.

Vitreous

With the moonlight to guide you, feel the joy of being alive. 

The day that you stop running is the day that you arrive.

The night that you got locked in was the time to decide. 

Stop chasing shadows, just enjoy the ride. 

-Enjoy the ride, Morcheeba

22nd Jan 2014-8:59 p.m.

I wish I could pause my mind.

I wish for a moment, I could tell someone, anyone, exactly how I feel. Spill all on a bare canvas, a blank page, soak it drunk in the ink of my thoughts. I am not supposed to repress and bear down this way. At least, let me make the smallest of gesture, an minute exhibit, a glance, a touch, of expression. How I find myself locked within infinite walls and boundaries of conduct and deliberation. Am I going to end up in some sort of mind prison, alone, starving? No, I'm already there. It's a very strange new territory, familiar only at rare times but still so distant and alien. Uncomfortable. Annihilating. Exhausting. Starving. Saddening. Aching. Draining.

Hopeless. 

Midnight insight

Let these words speak.

Let our eyes never meet

cause even if you love me,

what would the people think?

What would they do to you?

They'll just keep fighting

and I'll keep writing, to you.

Even though I fly through the smoke,

doesn't mean I made the flare.

I might have fire in my throat,

doesn't mean I made the flare. 

-Dragon

by Breathe Owl Breathe

Rogue

The winter that I had been waiting for has come and gone. But I'm still
here, trapped inside the ice cube that I slide into my tall glass of amber warmth. I'm covered in cuts and bruises, wounds and injuries of many blows that I delivered to myself lately. I am a shape unhappy with myself, twisting wavy strands of my short hair around a lot after a hot bath to make me feel a little more presentable to myself. I wake up feeling drowsy, from heavy dreams and heavier eyelids, to go about a day that has little to reveal itself for me. When I think about how I have reached here, it all melts into a hazy and fragmented ether. It seems I have lived many lives already and that I'm newborn now, taking shaky steps for the first time with no particular direction in mind. Everyday, I see at least one thing that inspires me, and it may as well be something very small but it's there. It also leaves just as soon as it had come. I've already allowed myself too far into a realm so obscure that I cannot withdraw without some awful tremors.

I've realized that over the last decade or so, my perspective on my self and my reality have changed many times. It's hard to admit that I feel like I have regressed. When I read things that I had written earlier, maybe a few years ago, I am jealous of my old self. How dulling it is to find that I have not moved higher, better. Somewhere, my ego and defiance, faint glimmers of hope, show themselves to me and I like to dwell on them before moving on to another cigarette. More than ever, music has become my constant companion. Just today, I thought about how I used to relish, and really relish, being by myself most evenings. Now I make desperate attempts, and loop playlists, so that the silence doesn't consume me and my thoughts, and possible loneliness. It really is the kind of winter that I wanted to share with somebody. And sure enough, I did find myself warm in the glow of a secret happiness. But just as it started getting comfortable, it was asked to vacate. The madness of contemplation overdid itself.

I'm finally 25 years old. I realize that there's surely a long way to go, maybe in this exact manner, and maybe not. I'm done dealing with juvenile issues like finding my "identity", purpose, and jargon like that. I feel a temporal complacence that is extinguishing what was left of any burning passion and drive to be constructive. I am the looper. I am the bitter-sweet hangover of a beautiful evening, even if for the wrong reasons. I am the drunk call you can count on to pick up the phone. I am an ugly remnant of what used to be a quirky, laughing, predictably tragic entity.

The possibilities of growth are endless. Like an emotional decision taken in haste, spouting off in mad directions, where an infinite chance to seize what ought to be rightfully yours beckons. The sky is clear tonight and the moon almost full. I however, am emphasizing on a zero-content, chock full of bullshit conundrum. An unhealthy type of nothingness. It's the strangest thing you can find your self at- places that you didn't know existed within you, happy places, and yet, a dreary misery over the mess you have made out of it. These cuts and bruises on my body are but reminders that I have been sliding, slipping, clumsily teetering my way through what is NOT the worst and lowest point of my life. Too often I find myself preaching words of advice with such a forceful confidence that even I am alarmed by my vehemence. These words are, of course, what I myself need to hear most. Not that the boomerang has returned back to me. I strap on my jacket of denial and turn face the other way.

Chances are, I am an addict. To nothing in particular, yet certain patterns jump out at me. I tried to psychoanalyze what latent troublesome bit of my past is manifesting itself in me right now. Failed. There is  nothing except for a taste for indulgence that I have acquired. An itch that i just have to scratch. Trouble that I just have to create. Work opportunities that I just have to ignore. A song that I just have to listen to. So indulgent that the opulence of it all disgusts me in return. Friends and acquaintances appear to have evolved, some of which I like, some I look at with mock-interest.  No one seems to be thoroughly disapproving of me and I wonder if anyone, anybody really knows me at all. And where do I begin, if I want to unwrap myself to somebody, without coming across as a half-baked solicitor of poor judgement?

It's all easy to say that I need to take one day at a time. One simple, looped day. One entirely fluctuating, mood-driven, unproductive, cold winter's day. Entirely spent in the hopeless pursuit of unfruitful ventures, rhetorical assurances, meaningless interactions, egotist pride. The magnetic romantism of this type of life is very strong to a mind as fickle as mine right now. There have been choices made that bear testimony that I have absolutely no logical reasoning to my behavior/personality/opinions. But who runs after logic in cases like these? Don't answer that.

That ice-cube that I mentioned will probably melt one day. And I will see that all is fluid around me. Simply water that takes the shape of whatever it is contained in. And the cyclical nature of my days will take shape into a consolidated, meaningful, well-reasoned existence. Healthy, happy, loving, understanding, well-behaved existence. Might even look good on me.

The buildings ran amok and people froze

A few minutes ago, I lit my first joint in weeks. A friend left me some, more for his safe-keeping than my consumption and I rolled one out of boredom and an acute need to break the stagnation that is my every evening nowadays. I went out to the balcony of my room and kept out of the eye of my mother’s driver. Lit it. Waited. The lampshade hanging in my room casts a diffused glow into the balcony. It looks pretty. Below, the dark of the children’s park next to our house is hollow black. My eyes don’t see very clearly anyway and I can’t make out anything in the dark shapes below. All I can make out is the streetlight some distance away and a car or bike passing in the road. In the dark, all that moves is their light.

The buildings don’t move. They never ever move. In the darkness, they look more patient than ever, waiting only for people to animate them. The ones who built them. I thought about a story and here I am writing it. The problem, the one that’s really biting me, is that I can’t thread it together for nuts. I have been alternating today between mild love-type exhilaration and uncontrolled laughter and a dull sword-over-my-frustrated-head kind of moments. And wondering if I would black out after eating the humongous monster aloo chaat made by this guy in the marketplace earlier today, i.e., wondering if the unexpectedness of the giant gut-buster would cause a serious alteration to my physiology. My playlist goes on and on and on. I went to the riverside today. The river is calmer than the sea and I am dreadfully out of practice (writing). Kites and crows fought for scraps of dead fish strewn around the sands, while a deadly sausage-fest style party of about 200 boys danced (?) in the restaurant-ship close by, to Chikni Chameli that played real, REAL loud. The Kites won the fight easily (boy, they are huge; wingspan, large) and scattered the smaller scavengers who waited their feeding turn.

Me VS giant Gut-Buster

I am just a little buzzed. December is cold in Assam and my hands and feet feel numb. Apparently, it gets colder next month. I can’t wait. For a long time, I have been thinking and thinking of how this is my first proper winter at home after years. I am completely confused over what to do about it. Eg. Bonfire, morning walks, work, live life to the fullest, etc. Everyone keeps telling me that I do nothing. Day in, day out. Every day that I have moved back home. And I know it to be true. I am so bad at freelancing and setting any rules or boundaries for myself. But I don’t really want to rant about it here again.

So my new rant will take on a more conceived form. Do I mean controlled? Maybe. Or maybe I mean concentrated. Maybe. Since I can’t and won’t post my exact thoughts on to the internet, maybe I can think of some metaphors. Damn. Back to Plath again (Metaphor is a poem by her about pregnancy). She is so scary. She is so subtle-ly scary. You just don’t realize when she slips you a good, solid one that hits you right on the top of your brain, a resounding, light, but well-placed smacker. Some pages left to finish her novel. I’ve abandoned it in its most terrifying chapters. Sylvia has woken up in an asylum of sorts. Face is different colours. Hair in short tufts. Under electric-shock treatment, etc. Scary stuff. And so wonderfully metamorphed (tisa word) from the initial opening pages of a thinking-girl’s Sex in the City style New York.

Flash news: Gut-Buster has got me. Am I stoned, cold or sick? Can’t tell because I feel fine but keep imagining/noticing my eyes darting way too much as I type this. But while I was in the loo, I thought I looked fine. Maybe it’s a good idea to fall sick for a few days. Then I can bypass the whole bling ka-ching Xmas/New year’s hype.

Idiot. Not escapist at all.

I think now I shall write a bit about my confrontational issues.

I cannot confront.

On a personal level. Anything. Anybody. Myself.  It gets a bit too much and was pointed out to me today. I kind of knew this in parts, but today, friend said it’s been a problem with me. I think she said it from experience. And that makes it true. And if it is true, then I have a serious problem that I have to do something about because it may be a root cause of my frustrated sedentary life. Friend (as friends do) gave me exact advice on what to do to counter the confront-issue, the execution of which is being currently delayed on my part. More on that later. It’s a vicious loop.

Gut-Buster has shattered my illusion about having a tough, Indian stomach. I have prided myself on it, many a time, eating many a junk in copious quantities. Pride, pride, pride. Shame on me. Where does it leave me in the end? Wondering if the maker of the GB knew what his lovely, exotic, 120 bucker concoction would be doing to me. He had insisted that I stand next to his chaat-chariot and eat it. He even PACKED some extra for us before we left. It was ditched at the earliest convenience. 

Pride. Another deadly transgression. Is it not a fine line we tread between actual egotist pride and a self-preservation purposed defence mechanism? I think it is. But how do you know all the time that which is which? You don’t. And hence, the fine line, as always, is blurred.

Since I am sort of spilling all, might as well write about the puppy thing. Looking at the new puppy, I wonder with what ease people tell you that a young dog will get used to anything, eg., sleeping at a certain place, toilet-training, whatever else. My point is that puppies are expected to adapt to given circumstance, enthusiastically learn their manners and not really question. This they do. And isn’t this very doggy-attribute the hallmark trait of the evolution of the human kind? Adaptation. Human ability to accommodate, progress, develop, face odds, eras, disasters, dictators, diseases, Justin Bieber (LOL)? Then aren’t we all feeling a little too smug about being the “masters” of creatures whose very characteristics we mirror so discreetly?

Who will learn cursive anymore? Who will take out a notebook and (fountain) pen down daily expenses? Who will make dog ears in books? In some future, I may well be so accustomed to technology that I find it easier. It’s with a painful ache towards analog that I think I may ditch it someday and not care anymore. Digitisation brings us all a futile step closer to the far more superior alien life that we descend from and I just pulled a below-the-belt one. Futile only because us mixed-humans are stupid. Attention spans are extinguishing. There is no privacy left un-invaded. Weed is illegal. Gay sex too.

I cannot think of what to write about anymore. But I am happy about writing a little today. Sad that it’s about to end right now. But let this be recorded as a beep/dot/jolt in the recently-so-symmetrical line of my evenings’ life-support system. One small step for me, a giant leap for... Jalebi. The Day the Buildings Ran Amok and the People Froze.

And beeps are important. ;)

Jalebi at work

Aqueous humour productions

Sometimes I take on
the pain of the world,
and cry my eyes out
dramatically,
cinematically,
when I PMS.

Infinitive

We give words to feelings, which are in fact, infinite.

“Love is such a small word.” Yes, indeed. How do you explain that feeling of soaring through the sky, a crushing, unconditional affection for anything that becomes your complete reason for existence, even if it lasts one small moment or an entire lifetime, should some be so lucky? I have been told to name it ‘love’, but it seems such a small word for something that consumes one entire universe in a heartbeat. Connotations are powerful and all pervasive. Stimuli bombard you at all times and don’t we all know that the subconscious mind absorbs far more than we actually realize. Symbols, words, shapes, names, written and inherited by word of mouth, and what not, sustain the entire universe of us humans as we know it. And for those who don’t experience this passing down of these attributes, connotations are then action- reaction. An understanding- some sort of flowing, organic, multi-dimensional understanding that occurs and then, without getting verbose about it, connotes itself to the other, very easily and effectively. I mean for example, an ecosystem sans human beings, or the movement of planets and stars.

I read that it is very wrong to repress your feelings. When you do, it bottles up inside you like a toxic substance within you that will keep you volatile and extremely vulnerable. It will consume your strength, drain you dry and clog all your energy centres. Seems harsh, right? I thought so too, but I have understood that it is very true, by the light of some clarity-defining events. It said that a feeling is a very strong vibe, a frequency that you emit (check movie ‘Down the rabbit hole’), and the repression of which could be very harmful to you, even on a physical level (manifesting in the form of headaches, stomach problems, backaches, digestive, etc.). What I also learnt is that the frequency of an emotion like hate is as strong as the frequency of love, but both operate as opposites in their effect on you. I will dig deeper into this and to someone reading this, please correct me if I have gone wrong with the facts.

It’s like the old Cherokee story- there are two wolves that live within us. One is love, harmony, grace, and the other is hate, jealousy, violence, malice, you get the drift. Which one is stronger? The one that you feed.

In earnest, I am currently trying very hard to remove sources of conflict and strain within myself, to understand myself and these concepts much better, and of course, apply it. There is no point in knowing all the answers if I can’t do anything about it. I feel clogged, and now you know why. I have repressed infinity and that, mon ami, is deathly wrong.

So I am trying to let it all out. It is as simple as breathing, if you know how to do it. And I am very fortunate to be placed in a land and among people who can help me do this. It’s all there at the exact right time. Make no excuses because there are none in the continuum of ‘time’- another small word for something that is... again, infinitive! 

Do you have the time?

She let go. Without a thought or a word, she let go. She let go of the fear. She let go of the judgments. She let go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head. She let go of the committee of indecision within her. She let go of all the 'right' reasons. Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go. She didn't ask anyone for advice .She didn't read a book on how to let go. She didn't search the scriptures. She just let go. She let go of all the memories that held her back. She let go of all the anxiety that kept her from moving forward. She let go of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right. She didn't promise to let go. She didn't journal about it. She didn't write the projected date in her Day-Timer. She made no public announcement and put no ad int he paper. She didn't check the weather report or read her daily horoscope. She just let go. She didn't analyze whether she should let go. She didn't call her friends to discuss the matter. She didn't do a five-step Spiritual Mind Treatment. She didn't call the prayer line. She didn't utter one word. She just let go.

No one was around when it happened. There was no applause or congratulations. No one thanked her or praised her. No one noticed a thing. Life a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go. There was no effort. There was no struggle. It wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad. It was what it was, and it is just that.

In the space of letting go, she let it all be. A small smile came over her face. A light breeze blew through her. And the sun and the moon shone forevermore.

~Safire Rose

Addickt

The only remotely descriptive travel post I have ever written

Thing is, deciding on the spur of the moment to just take off, I didn’t really know what to expect out of this. Although I’ve spend 4/5ths of my life in the north-east, these hills completely bewitched me, blissfully carrying me off into clouds made out of some serious insight. The grace of the place is difficult to explain, so is the enormous freshness that it exudes. I filled up my ashtray lungs with the sweet air as much as I could but it really wasn’t enough. I even lost to urge to smoke, the altitude just taking me higher and higher, at each wind of eerie mountain road, greenery even more prettier than the last, little fascinating things even more pristine than the last, the air even colder than the last breath, and the tip of my nose almost freezing in delight! My legs ached so much throughout (I am not used to walking so much in a day!), uphill and the tougher downhill, but I just wanted to go on and on, at my sweet pace, reach the point where I am higher than everything else in the world, above everything else, above the life that I know, head among the clouds, mind at flight.

So here I am, documenting a journey sitting back at my desk at work, picking out the pictures that best tell my story. I was charmed, so enchanted and happy. I don’t usually put up any pictures or write about any occurrences that really impact me, but see, now I want to!

Excuse shaky picture quality. Excuse badly composed photographs. Or just excuse me.

So here we are waiting for the bus outside ‘Parveen Travels’, Pondy. Nothing too ground-breaking- just documentation 101.

Here, we stop at around five in the morning, none of us wanted any chai so we just sat about smoking, and already the place started to remind me of Meghalaya/Upper Assam. 

 

Here, we begin the ascent towards Kodai. Pictures taken out of the bus window. I am too excited to go back to sleep. 

We reach at 8.30 a.m. Kodai town is tiny and clean! Much like old-Shillong. We eat awesome hot puris for breakfast before heading off to Vattekanal- which is higher up than Kodai.

We start walking up hill. It’s a wrong road that we have taken and will take us 2 hours to reach there but at this point I don’t care. See why. These are some pictures I randomly took here and there. 
 

This is when shit got serious for me. I was hell bent on being one-of-the-hills, acting a bit eerie, not talking much, just out of wind and thrashing my head all ways to cram in as much beauty as I could. And we kept on climbing.   

Reached Vattekanal and Jacob’s (name changed for privacy!) Cottage. And we had successfully captured the only remaining little wooden cottage, dim, cosy, complete with awesome blankets, dining table, lots of windows, crazy art pieces, paintings, and a fireplace. Me started clicking pictures before we messed it up with our luggage.
 

The mist had a mind of it's own, circling down on us from time to time.

We opened up the Old Cask and smokes and later went to down to town with our heads swimming (took us another hour and half to walk).   
 

On way, arguments and revelations broke out. Joe and I came across this gorgeous hill doggy and were convinced that the mystery dog had appeared only for us. Friendliest thing, he gave us the saddest look when we walked on. I swear he was too big to carry back with me.

Doggy performs 'sad'

The town was peaceful as ever and we kept lounging by the lake, around the lake, up and down the markets, and then took a cab back to quite a cheerful night at the cottage a la Vatte. 

Ah, next blissful, ice-cold morning. There is always an Altaf at these awesome places. Ate some Israeli food for breakfast and played with the doggies there. 

Jackie snoozes

 

 Then, for Magica showtime, we headed back to the cottages, this time at the one even further up. Time to put on our 3D glasses, and when the view was like this, what can I say. It was an explosion of happy.

The mist kept swirling in like a band of galloping horses. The plants and trees became our friends, bright, dancing, talking. Shapes, patterns, people, thoughts, colours, sounds, laughter. Irresistable.

Later we went to get some thing to eat down to the tea shop and got caught in a thunderstorm. The mist encircles us and the rain thrashed. Hailstones! We ate a plate of hot maggi (sheesh-instant noodles stalk me), bought some supplies and headed back to the cottage once the rain slowed. It rained the entire night! The electricity went zap, it was now pitch dark everywhere and wrapped up in warm blankets, we zzzzzzzz………

Last day came too quick. 

The Goodmorning Boys :)

The truth has a way of pouncing out on its own.

Potluck cafe fed us well.

Colours at Potluck!

I allow one lousy picture per journey.

Good lord. I die of cuteness.

Camelephant in the house!

To walk is to seek

Freshness of this kind is a slap on the face of a city slacker. Look at what we miss.

Back at the cottage- Old monk, hot cup noodles, Win cigarettes, rain outside and good company. Bliss!

Bootlegging atop the town football field. Glowing lights of the market opposite.

And then we almost missed the bus. Finally caught it and were out like lights in no time. Kodai is definitely worth another trip, another supply of lungful happiness, another round of purification of mind and soul.