Thursday, March 29, 2012

Conspiring senses rebel

The month of March began with an excitement to furnish the house which meant continuous trips to shopping malls, visits that I dislike. I have always detested shopping. However, the enthusiasm to fill the company provided accommodation with possessions that would give me momentary happiness filled my days for some time. Each object parked in my house provided me immense gratification whenever I stepped into my house. I couldn't resist admiring them. Any tiny speck of dust activated me to reach for the cleaning cloth. The smell of new furniture in the house affirmed my settlement in this new place. Sipping my green tea, enjoying the feel of new texture adorning my apartment, I appreciated the unknown craftsmen, who toiled hard to give my senses a pleasure.

My adrenalin rush had not even settled down, when my sensory organs having had their brim started producing uncomfortable sounds. The very eyes, which till yesterday were busy appreciating the beauty indoors, started watering. Nose choked with all the dust and sand blowing outside refused to perform its primary function. My mouth, gasping for breath was forced to open itself at all times. The sore throat sent shrill vibrations in the room tiring me completely. The parched tongue developed a metallic taste swallowing white pills and gulping queer syrups.

Exhausted with the internal aches, my body slumped one day onto the new grey and black sofa. The sedatives numbed me and my sensory organs failed to differentiate between day and night. I was sleeping both through the sunrise and sunset. Whenever I woke up, I found myself lying on the couch. I had become a part of the living room, in other words an extension of the new furniture and I abhorred the feeling. However much I patted myself in selecting each piece, I did not want to be identified as an object of beauty. My limp body convulsing in between, in fact was a blotch on the new upholstery. The grey couch would surely have preferred a healthy companion rather than me and box of wet tissues.

My mood irritable from days of sedation smelt like rotten eggs. But I could feel my senses conspiring to rebel all the resting. The same fingers which enjoyed the rough texture of the sofa material now were aching to do work. Eyes started longing for change of scenario and were pining for some natural hues. The diaphragm was craving for pleasing odours to fill up the thoracic region. Nonetheless, the body wasn't supporting and settled adding an extra layer on the settee. Senses still not armed enough decided to lie low for couple of days more. Now my moods emitted a stench unbearable to my own self. I had to muster courage to discard myself of old smells and firmly hold myself strong.

Gradually, my senses pushed me out of the couch one day, lest I get accustomed to this lassitude. Weakness does resurface some times during the day even now , but my senses fruitfully distanced me from the couch. Thatched conspiracy eventually worked to my relief.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

The Yellow flowers broke the pattern

I step closer to one of the rectangular glass windows for a fresh peep of nature’s work of art. My eyes long for a freshness beyond the cream walls and the salt and pepper furniture. This subconscious pattern is routinely followed in the last few months.

The L-shaped living room boasts of only three windows. All three bear an uncanny similarity. The wooden pelmet shading the windows looks equally drab and unattractive. The striking similarity of the windows spreads even to the pattern of dust clinging on to the outer sides. The artist is none other than the erratic sand storms and mud blowing from over the seas. Each new design unashamedly reminds me to clean the piling grime. I conveniently ignore it.

The strong sandy gale one day may decide itself to blow strong and vacuum the windows to a sparkle. But as of now, the sandy windows act as canvas for kids in the neighbourhood. They draw ingenious patterns with their tiny little fingers. On some days it even turns into a blackboard. Kids merrily scrawl their names on it, messing their fingers and clothes. Jumbled names with occasional missing letters end up forming a literate pattern in the lower part of the window.
Eyes accustomed to the sprayed dust and illogical patterns were greeted one morning by few small peeping yellow flowers on one window. The ignored shrub below the window had branched out small multi-layered yellow flowers. The dust on the window awed by the flowers beauty dislodged some of the dust letting me appreciate the flowers. Sleepy senses got a jolt and a cheer rose in my heart. Each spread out branch had a bunch of blossoming flowers at its tip. The following days multiplied the yellows and heightened my happiness. I could not drift my eyes from them.

The lifeless window seems to have sprung back to life, the other two windows envious for obvious reasons. I let the window bask in its new found reflection. I leave the window with an inner reflection, so akin to human behaviour.

Sunday, March 11, 2012

Deep in sleep

I always heard as a child the story of a poor farmer, who toiled all day and slept like a log every night. He did this for his entire life. Since last fifteen days, I have also been sleeping blissfully. Each body limb just crashes at the sight of the bed. The mind has learnt to switch itself off to the world. Fresh in the morning having slept like a baby, each limb performs its task diligently, like obedient slaves under colonial rule.

There are always dusty rooms everywhere desperately in need of cleaning service. The last fortnight has helped cleared the coating. The sedimentary deposit needs state of art drilling tools and hands of a deft physician to scoop out in all the worrying clots of the mind. The hard working farmer never even had the time to think of all these. He just practiced Nike shoes advert "Just do it", with probably no shoes to shelter his cracked soles.

I don't hop, skip or jump though I have a pair of trainers. My play area is wherever my uncracked soles land and playing is moving. My mind having learnt mathematics at school has passed on the buck to the body parts. So now it's all the organs practicing to be vertical in the broad daylight and crashing as horizontal in the night. There is something now in common with the farmer.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012


Black round patterns on the grey pleated curtain
Shadow of its strings dangling on the crumpled tip
A blurry pattern emerges before my eyes
A long yawn escapes my dry lips
The numb arm involuntarily reaches
For the spiral water bottle
Cosily resting on the bedside table
The water slipping down my gullet
Sets my mood to start another day.

I shift awakening my sleepy red blanket
The rooms tranquil feels the stir
The creased pillow still bears my outline
My fingers caressingly trace the imprint
A borderless rectangle arrests my attention
My first visitor has sneaked through the glass window
To draw the four side pattern on my old bed sheet
My painted toes play with the beam.

Slipping out of the cosy brown bed
I stake my claim on the cold blue flip-flops
Closing the door on the comforting snore
My feet move along the familiar corridor
The creamy brown tiles recognise my half yearly contours
And guide my sleepy legs to the sliding window
I stop to stare out at blowing sands
The early morning all to myself.

The odourless morning breeze
Sends tiny particles of sand in my eyes
Something does not seem right
The swaying green branches, empty cold benches
The sprinkling hosepipes, the gigantic dusty cars
The green manicured lawns, the noisy power plant
Everything seems out of place.

My eyes still searching for something
Innate in this vast barren land
This wilderness has something to offer
Except vast sandy stretches of blankness
I step out to touch the flowers
To share their loneliness
Both of us confide our tales of displacement.

I do not belong to this desert
Neither do the flowers nor the trees nor the soil
I enter my world back
I stuck my piece in this uprooted jigsaw puzzle.