Defining taste.

Sometimes you chance upon something that it makes you stop. Go back. And take a look again. Today I stumbled upon something like that at my friend’s office deck. It was a model tree made from cut stones of white, red, blue and green colors. Just glancing at it while passing by sparked some flickers in my mind. Flashes of a life so long past. Of my childhood. Of wearing necklace made of exactly same colorful cut stones; cut, yet polished and smooth. Of feeling beautiful just wearing them, though I was just a skinny 8 year old. Of me fiddling with the stones all the while. Of licking the stones often, to see what they tasted like. Of mom chiding me for being filthy like that. And me thinking, “It’s not filthy. Its tasty.” I guess I thought tasty also meant liking something when you put it in your mouth. In that logic, it wasn’t tasteless. ‘Cause I liked their coolness and their shape. I loved the way the stones felt against my tongue, for reasons unknown.

Or who knows, maybe I loved them because deep down I wanted to be like them – irregular, uneven, but with a finesse. And yes tasteful too.


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Melange

Isola di’ Burano in Italian – Island of Burano… Island of colours, it should rather be named. Every building joined on its side with another. Every building having an upbeat colour and none having the same shade as its Siamese twin. I wonder if the islanders get together and decide which colour they should paint their walls every year, so that they don’t end up having the same colour as their neighbour’s house.

I just couldn’t stop clicking pics of the buildings. They were so bright and vivid. The whole island was full of almost identical tenements. Each sporting a different colour, and yet the melange managed to be so well blended. Numerous disparate colours in one place, yet so perfect with each other, so perfect together.

I kept gazing at them wonder-eyed. May be because they were so unlike us humans. We too are of the same species, but of different colours – having different cultures, languages, vibes, thoughts and feelings, and so imperfect when together. So imperfect together as a race.

Humans, the biggest let-down of nature.

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A Slice of heaven

That tiny piece of heaven,
Tucked away in the heart of a gem called Cherrapunji..
Where you can lie down listening to the waterfalls,
That seem like the music of infinite pearls dropping into oblivion..
Where you can fall asleep staring at a sea of stars,
And you can wake up to the smell of fresh blades of grass..
Where you can peep open your eyes,
To shining diamonds seeping through the gap between trees,
And they draw graffiti on your face,
That look like buds and blossoms..
Then you murmur to yourself;
Nothing the concrete jungle which I call home gives,
Nothing at all can beat the bliss..
Nothing, can make me feel at home like this.

Trumped!

For me, the saddest part about Trump’s win is not immigration reforms or tax code overhaul or anything political like that..

It is the fact that someone can run on a platform of racism, xenophobia & misogyny, and still have hordes of actual ‘human beings with brains’, literally hand him on a platter the most powerful position on the face of the earth!

Does this say volumes about Americans or humanity in general ?!

It doesn’t matter.

There she is; again,

Feeling like a stray dog with an open wound.

Any dirt or fly can self-invite to sit on,

Or even settle down.

The same fly that indulged in faeces a while ago.

The only thing she is able,

Is to stare and shoo,

And in vain.

For who is to bother,

What a woman feels.

‘Cause the ‘beasts’ of this world,

Can do things as they please,

All a woman can, is feel vulnerable,

And shoo them; again.

For him, they are ‘innocent’ pleasures.

But for her, she feels violated, desecrated.

He thinks it’s his prerogative,

To tickle; To tease; To touch;

To do whatsoever he deems right, or even wrong.

As if she is a fallen withered flower,

Even when the flower could actually voice the 2-lettered word,

It doesn’t matter, does it?

For, does a woman have feelings at all !?

Or even a soul, for that matter?

To him, she is some food left open,

To taste at least, if not devour.

He may brush his body past hers; deliberately.

Lay his hands on her skin; repulsively.

Anywhere; Any place; Anytime.

The Bus; The College; The Office.

Even when she says NO,

It doesn’t matter, does it?

He can still touch her,

Inappropriately.

It’s not a rape. It’s just a grope;

It doesn’t matter.

Usherers…

8 am, Umroi Army Station Guest House, Shillong

I find myself perched on the verandah of this right-out-of-a-painting cottage,
Listening to my favourite slow tracks,
And the rustling of leaves when the wind comes kissing them..
They seem like they are hushing secrets of some distant past,
And I can’t help but wonder how they have an uncanny semblance,
To the racing waves of the sea.
May be, just may be, if we listen closely,
The whole universe talks the same language,
And we just never listen enough,
Or with all our heart, to know that.

I gaze beyond the narrow white stone paved paths,
The tiny green shrubs and the fresh grass sprouting from the manicured lawns,
Through the window between two pine trees in the distance,
To the lovely long array of the same ones.
I find myself wondering,
Isn’t nature and music the perfect usherers of creativity,
And I realise they are the mentors of the pen that I wield, and none other.
They are the ones who always came whispering tales in my ears,
And to my heart.
In this moment all I want is to just be here,
And never leave.
Just feel this high that I’m climbing,
When the flow of thoughts come hit me,
As I inhale every gush of this pristine air..
And all I can do is breathe them out,
As beautiful strings of letters.

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My Superhero

Sometimes I turn around..

And gaze at the paths I have tread,
The stones that pained my feet,
The thorns that bled my flesh,
The currents I swam across,
The mountains I crawled over,

And I realize..

The only hero I ever had,
The face I kept searching in the crowds for,
The forever invisible, invincible super hero,
Who swooped down and saved me at every turn,
That red and yellow cape..

It was always, me.