Archive for the ‘ear-marks’ Category

ear-mark #7

Tuesday, April 14th, 2009

trusting the great outdoors is not ensuring the doors are safely locked, but sleeping listlessly under the sky…

ear-mark #6

Thursday, April 2nd, 2009

“Don’t we all fear the unknown?”

“Yes, but the unknown is never as dreaded as maggots in a stitched-up wound.”


ear-mark #5

Thursday, March 19th, 2009

Perhaps we all give the best of our hearts uncritically…to those who hardly think about us in return.

- T.H.White

ear-mark #4

Friday, January 16th, 2009

Good lighting makes for good portraits
But bad lighting makes for better puns

ear-mark #3

Wednesday, December 3rd, 2008

Frenzy rides on a forbidden rule
Laud the cynic, Listen to the fool

ear-mark #2

Wednesday, August 27th, 2008

bricoleur’s penseive – my life’s been one strangely lit stage…so often i find myself in a spot, and yet, the light is never enough for the scene…

alt+f4/note to self

Friday, August 15th, 2008

why dont we halt to help people when we is that nite in srinagar, and this one here back in delhi…years have passed

undercurrents across the bridge lead no-where, but to dark nooks, lapping it up and bringing back the same waves..only from a different dimension
but another layer of abstraction, like saw-dust on new furniture; playful ignorance of the macro, deviant axes of shared secrets and refusal to acknowledge the wisdom of crowds – nudging you into rickety movement anyway

i learnt that day…if you need help, you ought to ask for it loud enough so they can hear your plea
today…that should you shout for help and wave your hands about and run along, you may die
& i claimed to have grown up in the time that passed!

its almost in a leap from that nite to this…both days, it rained like it did..blinding sheets of silver, stirring up shivers..shouldnt that be bringing people closer?

wise-foolery : 1

Friday, August 8th, 2008

disclaimer: when they tell me stories of how they reached and what all they saw, i let them speak. i enjoy their current ownership and the sense of settled reverie they project being here, but even more , i love the conjured thrill and action. it makes me smile for i dabble in its possibilities too. you may not, but here’s one anyway –

once upon a helter-skelter, a small safety pin lived and thought. she was wise for her appearance, she knew. she decided it was time to change sides..swap roles. she wanted no longer to hide beneath the sulky stories of torn oldies, or even to peek out of newly sewn brocade. she wanted a novel job description, a different wardrobe, an exciting purpose; to be taken dangerously and coloured violet. she fretted, she had breathed too long in pleats, among creases. she had seen the delight of a sudden pinch on a schoolboy’s face and a rehearsed under-the-eye-crinkle of an immaculate stitch on a pained tailor. none thrilled her now..she longed for an irregular musical note, and simpler clothing styles for beelzebub’s sake!

she had overheard all kinds of conversations, and now! that was the only bit she cherished of this life she was going to leave behind – and some people thought small things didn’t have feelings! she amused herself, collecting all the snippets she was to carry forward to the new ledger. she found herself breaking into a wisp of a contortion, as she felt she hit a proud, high note. this is how her story would begin! she had found the right description (they call it metaphor in haughty circles but she was only a beginner – she reminded herself she would keep polishing the image as she discovered more of the world’s ways); she could hear herself using it as an opening to an eventful narrative – a bedtime story for her kids/dogs – whichever way life took her. Once, in a far-away plateau, there was a spent horse-shoe that had never tasted a plum. there was nothing unusual about her life, no surprises, no material for dazed conversations. she had been there, done that; but never been anywhere else or done anything but that.

willing herself to change this, she closed her eyes to soak in the last moment of her old-life, for this was going to be no kid’s fantasy. certain that no-one knew her silent plans, for she was small and inconspicuous, she took her first step with eyes still closed. she wanted this to be an adventure in the real sense! that changed things, for adventures were meant to be temporary outlets, not a way of life – they say! nonsense, she thought then! looking back later, she would often think herself hasty for forgetting the tirade of that old, bearded fool long ago in a fancy party. something about carnivals and mobs. she found him foolish, for he said they were both the same, and then struck a pose and used some difficult, long words she couldn’t even spell, much less retain. but he looked like he had travelled many cities, for he followed no particular dressing style. that enthralled her. he was fussy about grammar too and she didn’t use a word she didn’t fully understand. he would make for good company, she surmised. sometimes still, she dreamt she had found a chance to slip out of that silk dress of her pretty, albeit dull, owner and gone home in his pocket instead. but that wasn’t her move to make, if you know!

so as she took that step, she fell straight into the tares of what the world fondly calls an anklet. she wondered why, for anklets did nothing but make vain sounds. but the real reason for this tension was something else, for she had wished for vain moments too and imagined that being shallow wouldn’t be so bad either. what she couldn’t stand was the way everyone heard when the anklet spoke. she had stories to tell too, but her fellow saves knew no better than the spicy tales of the anklet who didn’t want to taste the salt water anymore. the tiring tales of the sea and it’s treasures; the typical setting sun and the predictable romances; the sad state of the shores and the heritage they bore; squabbles in commerce or homes, ship-decks or courtyards; and the anklet’s turbulent affair with the shore-sands – how could they have patience for stories so well rounded, so complete. The fish smelt awful, but I had my music to de-stress. conspiracy!, she muttered.

..and fretted again, why did people like hearing only of stories that had already happened. you could play around with them, but those would count as lies. with tales of the future, there was so much more you could say. she loved that genre, and that made her detest her own safety-pin-ness even more. she settled for the next best chance to flee and slid back sleeplessly into a dark corner of the satin box.


Wednesday, August 6th, 2008

to whom it may discomfort, the story died sometime before its first rendition in a magician’s cast, it carried to another universe, with no grammar/no lesson

the flight of a frisbee is a contest of the will of the hand with the play of the wind..sometimes friends, foes yet again..
the bustle of the day roams in the light: fanatically, supremely gay..never dares fill out the silence under night’s dark mane

texts say it is you that tug me here once, then you tug me there.. but they who never read know the strings are somewhere else, somewhere i belong and they behold but i believe i love you as i love those moulds

ear-mark #1

Tuesday, August 5th, 2008

bricoleur’s moment of fury – wondering how to tell someone who isnt around to go to hell..