Why does a face always look beautiful with tears?
It could be a fat face, an ugly face, a pretty face, a young face,
An old face, a haggard face or a worried face.
The face always looks beautiful with tears.
It could be a man's face, a woman's face or a genderless face
A Chinese, a caucasian, an Indian or a nationless face
It could be a black, a white, brown, yellow or a colorless face
It could be a pimpled, an acned or a faultless face
The face always looks beautiful with tears..
Reading, writing, reflecting. Trying to take an honest look at myself as much as I can. And that's not easy.
I've realised that it take years to build yourself a safe, comfortable, unchallenging, mindlessly busy life. You may spend most of this life cribbing and complaining about all the insignificant hindrances around you. Your job -- which is probably one of the most exciting jobs the city has to offer (how many of us gets to scan a city’s flora and fauna for a living) -- begins to seem like drudgery. Everything becomes a routine.
Over the past months, events -- uncalled for accidents -- have made me take a fresh look at myself. This probably takes greater courage than losing a dear one, because here you are on your own. Stripped of your ego, your pride, your status, your friendships – its your own individual world. The world closest to your soul. The world where every one of us stands alone.
Am dwelling on taking on an experiment to explore this inner world. Put away all that I have done, all that I have been and all that I stood for – and start from scratch. I’m afraid what the experiment would reveal. What would I lose and how would I come out? Would there be anything of me left at all? Several questions in my mind. But there's one excitement -- the hope that finally, finally, I may befriend my soul. The hope that I would soon know who I am -- not good, not bad, not kind, not mean... just that one existantial question. Who am I.
Uninvited she arrives,
Dressed daintily
Like a dark princess.
Demands the mind
The heart, soul
Life itself.
She wants to stay.
Take her in,
Hold her.
Like you, she's lonely.
Last night a tiny moth flew by and settled on my laptop. He spent all nigth on and around my laptop. This morning I found him dead on the floor nearby.
To me, it seems like this moth was telling something. That he had approved my ode. In a stupid way, I feel honoured. Like instant appreciation from the subject of my work. I picked up his body and laid it to rest in a plant vase in my balcony. May he rest in peace. Amen!
(September 23, 2010. 11 am)
Ode to the moth
Whirling dervishes
Dance dizzily around the light bulb
Rapt in reverie
Oblivious to night perils
Daring to die. Or seeking death?
A dash of dull grey
Paled in comparison
To the brilliance of the black night
Elusive, characterless
Rushing feverishly towards definite death
You make me see
The beauty of the unremarkable
Hi all,
Clearly I am getting nostalgic in my last few days at Indian Express, a national daily where I worked for the past 3 years. I wonder if these are my last few days as a journalist as well. But then again, I think the journalist in me will never die. Like they say, you can take a journalist out of a field but you can't take the field out of the journalist.
As of now, being true to my nostalgia - and a bit narcissist, maybe - I am only putting up some of my favourite stories. These may not necessarily be the best reportage on the field but they sure are the stories I had most fun doing.
Soon I plan to write a lot more. And a lot more impromptu stuff. Hoping for some poetry, some good pieces on issues I care about, maybe some short story.. Dunno what my Muse would throw up.
A bit nervous.. am really writing after so long.. Hope its good work.. (if theres one thing I'd hate for the world to see and say 'its a piece of shit', its my writing! But then, I certainly have the courage to take it if its the turth. So please leave your honest comments behind.. )
