Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Damaged & Beyond repair

It was just a journey back to this soulful city again. But for some or other reason, everything seemed different and less colourful. This city has changed (may be the crowd) and become strange. All of a sudden, it’s full of borders and locks, and I am an intruder in a hostile home.
Thinking about colours, what I’ve learned is that they appear and disappear as well. And for every uttering remark of never and forever, it is life that’s going miserable. And about that dull painted canvas of love I feel like I may be the only one adding that bit of colour.
I simply wish I could go back to note down the shadows of each person passed by. To have that freedom to keep moving, as though this is not the place where I belong to, as though I don’t know these passing faces, as though I m here just to draw there caricatures, as though I even don’t know me, the actual me.
The journey of “conquering life” is probably over. The excuses have hit the level of tolerance, the philosophies were completely dissipated, the photographs even have faded & what left behind is a worn out me...  Damaged and beyond repair...

Sunday, January 22, 2012

World will never be the same to all...

This new year was somewhat different for me.. 30th December surprised me with a bunch of pebbles at Ananda Nilayam orphanage.. A team from our company visited the orphanage with New Year gifts and food for the children there. We laughed together, enjoyed, played, cried, shared complaints, ate and did a lot more. Being an orphan is not as easy as I thought once.. The realization drove me a bit more empathic.. Those laughter and brilliant characters made me feel my life is really more beautiful.

I am not sure about how many of them could recall my name. I may be a usual chettan or chechi visited them with gifts and food. Obviously I remember only few of them, those who danced and sang brilliantly; especially that black complexioned dancer Vennila. A strange thought of who made them be an orphan confused me a lot. Who might be there mother? She/ He could have been anybody: a stranger, a passerby, a waitress, a bus driver. She could have been anyone who saw the girl/ boy that day wrapped in a towel, or in rags. Or it might be the mother itself, who is not confident about the living she can offer to her child. It was no one’s fault, the writer whispers as she plays with the whirl wind of abcd’s around her head; But still… Do you think it’s true? Do you think.. I am responsible?

Go to sleep, Vennila.. World will never be the same to all.. Tomorrow may change your life…It may or May not be true. World is responsible. Silences are responsible. Lies are responsible. Empty promises are responsible. Expectations are responsible. Apathy is responsible. Desire is responsible. Absurdity is responsible. Idealism is responsible.
But people never are, especially in the case of a stranger..
And the tip of my pen would be too frail to hold up the weight of my thoughts

Sometimes too much reality hauls you down and you don’t know how to move amongst it, and then you meet someone who inspires you and you think about ;Well, what can I do about it that happened to you?”, actually you feel like doing something, and you realise that it is not hard to make a difference.
Couldn’t you keep those too in mind for long? Will the day make any changes in you..not for the day, but for one week atleast..? You didn’t and will not. You will never understand. This makes no difference to You, whether your smile is real or fake, whether the matter is dead or alive, whether that’s fear for it or excitement. You only trap those colours in layers but never in emotions...

I wish I could feel and take pictures of her person and not just her face. I wish I could touch this screen and hear her voice. Go to sleep Vennila... Go to Sleep... World will never be the same to all...