All’s Well That Ends Well

There is a war in Syria, Congo, problems in Iran and Spain and between China and Japan, the Middle East is messier than a plate of food in a one-year old’s hand and the European Union has become the butt of a lot of new jokes.

Meanwhile there are terms like ‘cuts’, ‘silhouettes’; materials like brocade, felt and trends like the peplum and spikes and studs when you write about fashion. They do matter and make a difference. Duhh.

Incidents world over have proved that having a pair of ovaries and mammary glands each aren’t your best assets. The Anglican Church doesn’t want Bishops with them and drunk, sleazy vagabonds in India apparently aren’t getting enough of them.

There isn’t a lot of difference between Indian and British politics. The colonial connection is as clear as day. It’s crazy.

In other news it remains to be seen if it’s Kim Kardashian or Kate Middleton who’ll have the glitziest, most media hyped delivery.

The world hasn’t ended. Ha! In your face, Mayans. But for a few millions of Indians the world has come crashing down- God has stepped down from One day Internationals. I’m on the lookout for a new religion. Ideas, folks?

To have or not to have? The debate on guns is as enlightening as the chicken and egg conundrum. In Manchester two cops died for lack of them and in the U.S innocent children and temple goers died because some random psycho did.

Journalism is on the cusp of change. Or so they say. BBC/Jimmy Saville scandal, The Leveson Inquiry report etc etc etc. As long as I get a job…

On the personal front,

In London, Autumn isn’t a riot of colours, and winters aren’t COLD. I’m too scared to hope about spring. It rains here and that’s wonderful because it’s clean. And I have constant access to hot chocolate.

Ballet is… an experience. I highly recommend it. As is living on your own.

Writing about things because you HAVE to, is an exercise in procrastination and performing under pressure. There are ways to make it rewarding too. I still need to hunt for a few apart from positive feedback and comments from professors.

Once a literature student, always a literature student.

Writing. Snorts, sniggers. Just one word- blog archives.

Oh yeah, the Bombayite (yes, I like calling it Bombay, sue me) is now on her way to becoming a Londoner and a journalist.  It’s not always easy; it’s mostly fun, and yayiee? This still has to sink in.

Dear 2013, please replicate the pleasant surprises of 2012, let news writing involve more happy things and less of war, deaths, rapes, murders, scams and quoting The 88 “give me some more time in a dream, give me the hope to run out of steam”.

Here’s to the beginning of another 12 years before we’re flooded with a new swarm of apocalyptic scares and funny/stupid/catchy adverts like this one. 

Falak                                     

PS: Happy New Year :D

Up above the world so high

To and fro. To and fro.

The never ending, velvety blanket of inky black stretching above. The same blue-black around, beside and behind.

The wind atop a mountain at night.... Ever heard it? An invisible, ginormous millstone at work- that’s what it sounds like.  No breezes and zephyrs here. Just the wind, and laughter.

Hearing nothing, but the whoosh of the wind rushing into your ears; past you ; after you ; with you - a whispering, stalking presence.  

And the scale of the rocks: immense, towering, two hundred times your girth and three hundred times your height. Big, so big that everyone feels little. The mammoth summit looking down in disdain at the diminutive person’s antics; at it sparring with the wind; at.... the wind.

You can almost hear it grumble affectionately at the wind. The wind with all its wily ways.

                   H

            G

        I

 H

I see a carpet of fairy lights spread out beneath me, whirlwind in my tummy.

L

    O

        W

The impenetrable cloak of the firmament.

The wind is a live wire let loose: rattling, isolating, accommodating and dictating. No wonder the mountain’s fond of it.  Thank God for huge metal clamps that hold on with a tenacity equal to the gusty element’s.

The eye of my heart is stretched out below, glimmering; twinkling; pulsating with light, the grey asphalt arteries calm and quiet. Now, a womb to the sleeping alive who are dead asleep.

                         h

                   g

                i

How  h                    can I go?

                                                   A spinning top in my stomach.

Everything is slave to the wind. Even the formidable mountain, whose winding paths are full of curvy secrets and secret hairpin curves.
Seduced by its murmurs moving in sway to its rhythm I see with my watery eyes

Blue lights

                       Yellow lights

White lights

                        Red lights.

Will my hair touch the ground if I bend backwards and my feet the sky?

Now, I’m moving parallel to a silken black shroud.  Albeit, one covering the alive.

Unlike my heart’s eye, nothing’s verdant here. Every available bit of moisture, every bit of life is drawn out to fuel the invisible furnaces of the wind......

Sparse spindly vegetation sporadically adorning the bare rocks exposed to the wicked wind.  Oh, how keenly they must feel it slicing at them relentlessly; their varied contours and forms evidence of its artful cruelty.

That one looks like a crocodile.

                                                      That one there, a lot like a human face.

I smile, wincing as my chapped lips stretch. I feel it keenly too. Its icy cold touch as it loops, whirls, dips and twirls around us.

........to fuel the invisible furnaces of the wind and to infuse my hair with existence.  My medusa’s locks, newfound companions to the wind, together they defy gravity, each personifying the other.

Churning, spinning, heaving, flitting......

With a vitality of its own.

The wind pushing us: the swing and me

High

Whirling in my tummy,  so I screw my eyes shut and squeal with glee.  Can’t see anything except the patina of warm yellow.

Now I only hear. And feel

            Low

Toes scraping the ground.

Laughter in the background-maybe, there’s an age limit to do this.

Twisting the chains to spin faster than the wind. Perhaps, I've spun back in time. Maybe the velocious, hypersonic wind  and isolated mountains create an insular realm impervious to time.

Perhaps, I’m just giddy. Giddy but happy.  

Up

Creaking chains.

 I’m flying. I am the wind-powerful, frisky and bursting with energy. Also, closer to heavenly territories.  If I jump off before the swing stops will I land there?

Down

Legs pumping the air, kicking the wind out of it, and laughing; because I have been right from the start.

To

Up above the world so high

Fro

Diamonds at my feet. Not in the sky.

On the mountain tops,

Swinging it in style.

Falak

Exam Time Musings

Every time I appear for an exam I’m always appalled by how much information the human brain manages to cram and retain.

That’s something worth mentioning because I’ve been studying for the last 17 years and with an average of 4 exams, give and take, in an academic year I must have attempted at least 68 of them. Not to mention the competitive exams which don’t come under the ambit of the above mentioned school and college exams. So with a minimum of 100 exams and a maximum of many more, that’s quite a lot of torture I’ve undergone.

Every year, my brain compresses humungous text books, reams of Xeroxed sheets, material from millions of websites, piles of notebooks painstakingly filled with handwritten notes and snatches of my lecturers’ explanations in class. I’m sure that in the course of my primary and secondary education I must have easily read at least 1000 books from page to page.

I’m in awe of my temporal lobe. Under the stressful conditions of an exam hall it has the ability to retrieve information word to word, random lines that have been branded into my frontal lobe with just one reading -“O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo”. With the next question it’s geared up and visualizes the page long answer on Dryden’s life history and zooms in on the particular line on the left side in the 3^rd or 4^th paragraph highlighting the names of the poems  “Annus Mirabilis”, “The Hind and the Panther”, “Absalom and Achitophel”. Points about Baudrillard’s theory of simulacrum and hyperreality flow from the temporal lobe through the millions of motor neurons, with their many neurotransmitters and electrical  and chemical impulses directing my finger muscles to clutch the pen as if my very life depended on its functioning and scratch away on sheets of paper trying to fill in as many lines as possible. This is as much of 10^th grade biology that my hippocampus has decided is important enough to remember. And the fact that all this scientific jazz happens within seconds, that too, with the fluidity of an orchestra practising a symphony for the nth time stuns me.

Not during the exam, of course, as that would mean going blank and freezing midway through the paper, unable to right a single alphabet, let alone a word. Somehow whenever I see numbers or anything remotely mathematical on a question paper the neurons decide to stay what in scientific lingo is known as the “resting state”. There is, I think, an automatic sublimation of all the neurochemicals from my nervous system and my body enters a state of partial paralysis.

Thank God, the Universities and the many jobless souls who run them for language based subjects like literature for people like me who have a right hemisphere that is more evolved and developed that the left one. Also, I happened to find out the reason for my under developed left brain and the subsequent mathlexia today. My mom very gingerly revealed my having rolled off the bed and crashed headfirst on to the floor when I was 6 months old. She describes it as having sounded like “the cracking of a coconut”. Sigh... Like my Prof. says, all parents have their deep, dark secrets about having dropped us on our heads someplace, sometime. 

Until the next set of exams I’ll go back to taking my brain and nervous system for granted.

Falak

Starting Over

If you thought I gave up writing and blogging altogether, I'm glad to announce that you're wrong :D.

I just had some pressing matters to deal with before they'd press me into a quicksand of problems.

If anyone likes this or is intrigued enough by it, please suggest a better name/title. Lets see if an entire year of doing poetry has rubbed off  or should be rubbed off :P

Starting Over

Sometimes.   

Sometimes she finds it very difficult to write.

When she puts pen to paper,

Thoughts fracture into vapour

Gliding past her, away from her,

                         

Floating above:  clouds that seem

Touchable if only you could tiptoe a little higher.

Like the memory of something, a taste 
devoid of a name to chew on; eyes that gleam

Open into frozen, depthless hollows.

They stand impassive: a twin watching the other.

Not to assist but to scoff, “You think we are

Worth a fraction of eternity, of someone’s precious

 Moment in time?  Relics that gather

Human ken amassed over a million years,

In a concentrated heartbeat?”  She mutters

“Maybe....” and it dies in their face of incredulity.

Resonance of trepidation in her voice, she flutters

Between a yes and a no. “Why not?” with renewed

courage she enquires. They announce

“Look at our construct. Tasteful phrases, sophistication

Of design, erudite allusions: are these the terms you would

Outfit us in?” “Perhaps....” “And yet, uncertainty

Colours your utterances.”, cutting off her contention

Into shards of probing silence.

“I trust in your merit above mine. I do”. They contort

Into a leer. “We are a likeness, a shade, a shadow,

A silhouette without essence, reflecting you. Only as 

Credible, as you are. You us I me they we, better not

To be. No questioning our ineffectuality."

Came the rejoinder echoing, debilitating the hope that

Nourished her dreams.  Empty, unending, vacuous, void. Until,

She traced her course back to the beginning-parchments

From the past inked with wit, crossed anew with faith  ,

And smudged with feeling, pregnant with possibilities,

Giving birth to a chuckle, the ghost of a smile

Somewhere. “Beauty is as beauty does, and you are stirred

Up from tranquil passion, making you me us

Worthwhile."

Shoring these fragments of hope against her ruins, she sighs and starts again.