The Bench

She looked around 20 years old. She wore a strapless white dress with red flower prints and some flecks of green that dropped to a little below her knees. She moved chairs back into position and as she did, she turned her back to me, revealing a glossy red ribbon tied into a bow around her waist. She seemed just a little conscious of her dress and tugged at it slightly.

She was tall, but her dress made her look smaller. She was not skinny, but you wouldn't call her chubby either. She had slightly freckled, fair skin.

She wore her long hair in a complex braid that rested on her right shoulder. She wore blue flat slippers with a thin strap that she held on to between her second and big toe. She wore a silvery anklet only on her right ankle. She held a tray in her right hand, with a couple of beer mugs on it, hoisted slightly at shoulder level.

She often slipped into a narrow doorway and re-emerged, each time with that tray in her hand. She came back to serve some new customers, very cheerfully.

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She wore her short hair with a middle parting. She had black rimmed glasses. A fluorescent green polo t-shirt, with khakis folded upto below her knees. She wore black strappy sandals. She was about 5 feet tall and a bit stout.

I could imagine her at a desk, or a store, but not at a job that required the attention and admiration of other people. But of course, my opinion is based on her appearance, the way she sloppily and very ineffectually tried to catch someone's eye with a wave, the way she wore a handbag as well as a backpack on each of her arms, looking quite uncomfortable. I lost sight of her many times as I tried to observe the details of her appearance, specially because of the person with bubblegum pink hair who was walking a little away from her.

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"What time the ice cream shop close. Because I like to eat ice cream." Two girls sat down on the bench next to me. They were obviously not from the same place, did not know each other very well and not comfortable with speaking English at all. Yet, they shared laughs. They made a very active and enthusiastic attempt to be friendly.

They left my bench and went over to another one when it became vacant. I wondered, where the conversation would have gone from that point. What do you talk about after asking about the closing times of ice cream shops. What do you say after sharing tremendously unique details like your love for ice cream.

I glanced sideways at them again, expecting to see moments of awkward silence that have crept in to their conversation and I was surprised to see them still at it. I could not hear them talk, but I could see their faces reflect genuine interest in what the other had to say.

What you are not

The movie came to an end. The giant screen went blank after the last credit rolled out. The song phased out. The silence echoed through the huge white hall. He looked at his reflection on the screen. He continued looking at it for a while.


It was late at night and the moon lit a large part of the hall, making it look silvery. The windows let in the cool air and he felt himself going back to his childhood when he would sleep on the open terrace under the summer moon. Since the time he could afford it, he had bought houses on the topmost floor of increasingly tall buildings. Every one of them with a skylight. It was a feeble effort to try and shut out the lights of the rest of the world while he tried hard to remember that childhood.


Nobody knew who he was or what it was like being him. Every body wanted to be him, dress like him, talk like him. But every one who did an imitation of him, did it differently, depending on the movie that they had watched. Because, in no two movies did he repeat himself. There was no characteristic expression or gesture that he carried from one movie to the next. Even when he played the same kind of role, they turned out different. Film makers had to fight their urge to allow him to play the same story with a few changes here and there, simply because his ability to bring a character to life inspired them to explore their own creativity.
He, on the other hand, loved the details that writers put in outlining his characters. There was depth and life in the roles that he played.

That night he lay on the cool white floor under the moon peeking through his skylight and he thought of his last conversation with his manager. People wanted to make a movie of his life. With him in the lead role. "It will be the easiest role you have ever done. No month off to get in to character, no research and no crazy costumes. Your fans will love it, easy money and little work. You can make the movie and then make it to that vacation you have not had for the past 15 years."


The moon had moved right in the middle of the skylight. He knew that he wouldn't make that movie. He had always known that his life would catch up with him some day. And he had known that when that happened, it would be the end of his career and life as he knew it. How wrong they were. It would be his toughest movie ever. He would have to take that vacation first. He would have to find who he was. And when he did find out, that would be the end. He would no longer be able to play any other role.


He thought of that night long ago. He had just come back home from the movies. He had watched his favourite super-hero thrash evil and turn back time to bring back the dead. He felt himself flying as the hero flew. He felt victorious when the hero won. He lived that life for 180 minutes and then wanted more. That night on the roof he had decided, that he would be that guy in the movies.


He had been that guy all these years. Now people wanted him to play himself. He would have to go back to that night. He would have to be that hero again. He would have to turn back time to bring himself back.

The skies were becoming light and Manu looked outside the window. He had lots to write yet. He had so many details to fill in.

He would have to make it this time. He remembered his last bitter fight with his agent. "Everyone writes stories for movies. Who ever has heard of an occupation as a short story writer. If you want me to continue as your agent, you have got to write a movie script for me." How hard was it anyway.

He couldn't decide if his actor's childhood would be shown in a montage of clips or with a voice-over. How to fill in a 2 hour movie with just one actor and a voice over. There would have to be so many more people in a film actor's life of course. How would the story end. How would he depict these words without actually using them.

Manu went on writing, breaking just for badly made meals and a few hours of sleep in between. At the end of the month, he found himself standing over his paper basket. There were more sheets in there than in the pile that he felt he could keep. He still had a long way to go. He would have to make it acceptable to his nitpicking agent.

At the end of the next month, he looked at his story again. It had all the elements. His principle character was sketched out. The other characters had their roles well defined. There was a plot. There was a climax. The ending had a twist. It was perfect.

He sat down at his computer and typed in his story. Thanks to push button publishing, Manu had his next short story on his blog.

The Universe Speaks

Music makes the world seem worth it all. The heartbreaks, the sorrow, joy, love, nature, everything makes sense. Life should be written to music.

Sugary sweetness, overflowing and sickening is okay but for a very very short while. Like a 3-minute song with lots of repetitive chorus that sounds like sugar-high cheerleaders, the most annoyingly catchy tune. Hearing the same song years later reminds you of the time you heard the song first, how foolish you were back then. How much more foolish you are now.

Dance music is like the heart beat. Life dances to it. The sun sets, trees grow, trains rush keeping beat to this music.

Sad music is pure joy. There is a sense of pure love that washes all over and hushes the mind filled with thoughts that are so fast and mixed up that they hurt. Sad music wishes all that away.

Violins and guitars are the voice of the universe talking to us in the language in which everything resonates.

Lyrics to a song are sometimes like sugar in honey - pointless, sometimes like a fly in honey - annoying, and sometimes honey itself - sweet.

3-dimensional

I find it impossible to view this as a 2 dimensional pattern.

Why blog?

I recently started writing at a new blog : lifeandpepper.blogspot.com and I have been thinking about why I write on a blog made public for everyone in the world to read and write some thing there while trying not to talk about my identity in the real world while also giving out the blog address to people I know personally. (Phew, long sentence)

What do I write on the internet for. Is it some kind of deluded sense of being a good writer / an attempt to improve on skills / a record of life and the way I am going through it / trying to tell people "look I exist, I am witty, I am talented!!!!" and sounding like a big bore really.

If you blog, tell me why you do. I want to know what the reason for this endless number of blogs that are written and very rarely read.

The Moving Sky

The night clears out and I see

A sight that doesn't fail to move me

Clouds against an azure blue

Then a powdery sapphire too

The blue contains the blazing sun

Till the day is almost done

A dull grey behind a setting orb

Decked with orange purple daubs

A mysterious blue black it fades into

That holds in it (or just seems to)

The choicest jewels strewn around

To be carefully hidden in the morn

Then the wind paints in cloudy hues

And with these clouds the sky too moves

It moves, changes and carries me along

It fills me with a moving song

From my cozy spot in the park,

where I lie till it gets dark,

A thought gently knocks on my door

And I wonder on the grassy floor.

Something that only the eye can see,

That in truth is just fantasy

That which I can't feel and touch

Can touch and move me oh so much

An illusion, a show, a magic trick

Is that all it really is?

Maybe. But it still is magical

Music and Love

This music,

It flows all over me

Holds me

Washes all over me

The feeling

Rushes right through me

Thrills me

Rushes right into me

It tells me tales

That life is beautiful

That there is God

That I am loved

Yet it pains me

Makes my heart weep

It shakes me

It wakes me up

I need it

I long for it

I make it and in turn

It makes me

Mixed emotions

Of pain and intense joy

Of this moment

Fleeting by

Time Travel

Red bunches of poetry
A few petals wither slowly
Replaced by hundreds overnight
Set the forest on fire
Not one that burns, but soothes
In spite of the spiteful heat
When the wind blows
Flowers magnify it and
Infuse it with an aroma
That takes you back
To long lost days
Memories of long ago
Of running among trees
Of weaving flower chains
Of summer skirts and ice
Of games that lasted hours
Of fancy flavored drinks
Of not a care under the sun

Red bunches of poetry
Upon the Gulmohar tree
The stuff that makes
Time Machines

The Stone Maiden

"What does God mean to you, Bijju?"

There was a light breeze that brought emphasis to the vastness of the space and to the two lone figures in the dark and deep night. The moon rested on its throne with a decided air of superiority and knowing.

Bijju turned away to peer into the distance. Even if there had been light, his eyes would not have caught much. He took a deep breath. "Child, aren't you cold?" There was dread and sadness in his voice that caught her, making her feel colder. "Do you want me to stop asking?" Bijju breathed in some more nippy night air, and pulled his shawl closer around his shriveled shoulders.

"Shree, I am old and senile. You are in the prime of your youth. You have seen so much of the world, you have traveled widely, you can't possibly believe that I can give you anything. I am nothing but a poor villager, cowherd and now old man on his death bed. Ask me about my cows or this village. These are things I know." She can't know. No one could have told her. I never wanted her to know.

Shree looked at him. He looked a hundred years older than the last time she had seen him, fifteen years ago.

She walked up to him and knelt in front of his chair. She took his bony fingers into hers and looked into his eyes. Dadaji, I am sorry that you repent so much. "Bijju, you are a very brave man." Dadaji, I wish I could have spent my childhood here with you. "You have lived here like king." I wish you had not let go of us. "Don't give up on your God like this."Don't give up on her.

He started on hearing the words. He heard what she had said and had understood what she had wanted to say. But she couldn't possibly have heard about that. Why would anyone tell her.

She had not wanted to see it, yet earlier that evening she had dragged herself to it. She had spent a few minutes almost choking at the sight of what she had thought of thousands of times in the last fifteen years.

Shree left the village before sunrise. As the bus hobbled away into the hills, she saw the golden orb rise above far off palms and coconut trees. Her questions of yesterday found their way into her notebook and the ideas in her head connected themselves and wove a tight web.

Bijju looked at the bus from his spot on the veranda. I drove your father away, child. I loved my 'God' more than my family. I spent myself on that stone. I carved the stone and the stone carved me. But your father, my son, hated that stone with all his heart and mind. The day he left our home, my God left that stone. My God doesn't exist there any more.

Bijju's mind went back to the unfinished statue that had remained untouched for fifteen long years. Bijju's longest years and his most unhappy. He had never spoken about the statue again for years. He had forced himself to stop thinking about it till the previous night when Shree had asked.

Bijju went back into his house. Lying on the table was a framed photograph of his son and his grand daughter. There was also a manuscript of her latest book.

He read the first page:

"For Dadaji and his unfinished sculpture. Your Life and Our God."

She had not addressed him as Dadaji. She had not asked about the statue. She had not asked him why he had let her go away. She had not blamed him and hated him.

Bijju had let his family leave him over a sculpture. A sculpture of a woman. He had loved the sculpture more than any woman. His family had hated the mystery woman and the stone more than who ever she was. He had labored over the stone with purpose and determination. No one could understand his love. No one understood his religion. When men of his age turned to pray to idols and pictures in a feeble attempt to have their sins overlooked, he had spent himself chiseling out the curves of a woman's body in stone. He had lived for that stone. Now, the stone maiden lay weathering in a field away from the village.

Bijju opened the book. He moved his fingers over the title. "The Stone Maiden". Tears rolled down his jagged cheeks. His God came back to haunt him. His religion beckoned him. That night Bijju returned to her with his chisel.

Her 10 minute treat

She felt the coldness on her palm. Water vapour cooling off on the sides of the glass cup felt good on her dry hands. She looked at the scoops in her cup, decorated with exotic nuts and berries. The very sight was inviting. The cup of icecream was begging to be eaten. Strangely, something that looked so delicious had so feeble a smell. This was made up for by the richness that the first spoon of it gave as it dissolved in her mouth, the cold sweetness slowly spreading out onto her palate. The occasional crunch of a nut and the combined taste of chocolate with the nut made it heavenly.
The whole world stopped. The blazing sun was just wiped away, the honking vehicles were muted and the million trivial troubles that we put ourselves into were merely a speck in some distant universe. With every spoon she scooped out, it all disappeared. And with every spoon disappearing, they were all getting ready to make a come back.
All good things come to an end, and the short-lived joy was as fast melting as the choco-nut sundae.