Friday, 28 June, 2013

Follow the Drifting Traveller

This blog is from my former life, I haven't changed much, but grown a few grey hairs and flown the nest. For my latest trials and tribulations visit my new avatar as the Drifting Traveller because that is who I have become.

However, I might revive this blog at a later date. I'll keep you posted.

Thursday, 2 September, 2010


I love the smell of  old books
they remind me of tall wooden shelves
the colour of burnt gold,
the last rays of the sun,
 the room by the old neem.

The freshly cut grass
after the rains smells green
a brilliant blue sky
and a passel of clouds
calls to the season
of jasmine and shells.

A smear of yellow
on her arms and cheek.
A dash of brilliant
vermillion follows
the dazzle of gold,
the glow of youth.
The starry eyed brightness
of apprehension
slowly grows.

A silver haze of memories
like sequins on a lace
painstakingly woven.
the sheer plethora of colours
sounds and scent
overwhelm her senses.

The jingle of her bangles,
a tinkle on her feet,
a flash of red and green,
vanishes round the corner.
a whiff of mint and rose,
linger on in the air,
wind in her long black hair,
She has trapped my senses.

Friday, 30 July, 2010

"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn"

 There have been quite a few significant character building changes in my life in the past one year. Not all of them were welcome since I have a natural resistance to change, very un-evolutionary (if that is a word) I must say. So I fought and kicked and screamed and yelled bit ( really hard), and yet I was dragged by the hair kicking screaming and rebelling all the way to the middle of 2010. My life is full of very independent and confident people who know what they want and have created very successful niches for themselves in the world. These wonderful people happen to be my parents, friends and of course my dearly beloved who has achieved enough commendable heights to rightfully say "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn". However I am still running after all that jazz while it daintily eludes my time and again like a feather in the wind. My academic life of late is like a stubborn bit of burnt cooking at the bottom of the pan which refuses to leave. Not that I do not want to research!!! It is still a part of my grand plan to be a successful person. 
In the past few months life as I knew it is rapidly changing, I am contemplating finishing my Mphil research, leaving hyderabad, getting a job, getting married, applying for further studies, moving to a new country, making my marriage work, studying or working, travelling and continuing to run behind my life as the years fly past like a constant panorama of colours. Like a continuous reel of film a movie where I am the flawed protagonist who wants all of it with a bit of romance, tender loving care and romance thrown in.

In search for that missing bit of spice in my life I have resorted to a lot of trashy novels which help me dream. Learnt to live alone and re-confirmed my knowledge that I am not a loner but someone who needs a lot of space, I am extremely attached to family and friends who are as good as family. I don't care where I live as long as this basic need is fulfilled. South India hasn't been the same since the 23rd of January. I suffering from withdrawal symptoms of tender loving care. I have spent a lot of time away from research trying to regroup myself, making new friends, travelling and turned into a suspicious person who craves for attention.



I am not sure what will help since I know what I should be doing. Maybe retail therapy will help but I doubt it, I just need a shove in the right direction and a listening ear and a helping hand. Is it too much to ask.

Friday, 11 September, 2009

I suddenly find myself unable to write without going into the intricacies and theories of grammar. Syntax is going to my head. Some poet writes every song and John gave Mary a book. Pavarotti and Loren are singing but the colourless green ideas continue to sleep furiously. Even the shiny new linguist is baffled at times.

Friday, 13 February, 2009

  Yet another of those events which make you want to take a walk down memory lane. We have very few pictures together but each one has a story to tell. Now just imagine how many stories Twenty five years would have to tell? Recently my parents celebrated their twenty fifth marriage anniversary. Rather they didn't have an option but to celebrate in style. My family and I decided to give my parents a party, it nearly turned into one of the much loved soap-opera's on daily television. What with self invited guests and unexpected twists and turns miraculously it was a success. As I sat with my trusty computer trying to put together the best moments of my parents lives I realized a simple collage is not enough to house so many memories. It is like trying to fit a lifetime of happiness in a paper boat. It is such an overwhelming thought. However thanks to my father we have photographs of every significant event of our lives. Just short of photographing his own wedding he has diligently clicked away with his numerous trusty cameras. The drawback being there are more pictures of me and then the birds and the beesand then my mother and very few of him. My mother and I have tried to make it up by photographing him after I was old enough and my mother confident enough to be trusted with his precious cameras. Nevertheless I managed to turn up with quite a few photographs and what resulted was a tiny peek at their lives.   

Friday, 19 September, 2008

A Conversation

These messages were sent while you were offline.

12:52 PM Amrita: "you're under arrest. The charge- trespassing in my dreams"
12:53 PM "you must be tired because you've been running through my mind all day"
12:54 PM "Do you have a map? Because I keep getting lost in your eyes"
  which one do you like best?
In Reply...

Why do want to arrest me now?
I have for long surrendered myself to you.
If I had been running it was to find an answer.
Can I love you and forget that we had been in love?
So that I can give myself to you over and over again?
Who knows what love is and how it is born?
I am just an ordinary man with no direction.
I lose my way home everyday.
I have no map to guide me out of the wilderness in my mind.
I had once walked by myself, drenched in rain and cheap liquor.
The rain drops had knit a curtain before my eyes through which I had seen a face.
The face is long lost now.
But what I have is so beautiful.
Those fawn like eyes of the princess of my dreams.
I wish I could see it till my hands can feel and my lips can touch.
                                                                  -- Nowhere Man
In answer...

Can you forget that you are alive?
Will a life without a hope be living?
Its not a life that doesn't dream...
It is a mere existence...
How can I forget that which gave me life?
Your mere presence, a brush of a finger on my cheek
A warm breath in my hair....
That rekindled hope and steadied my faltering dreams...
A whiff of fresh air, a burst of energy and I soar
The wind never turns, it takes me with it...
higher and higher to secret places...
Lets me be where ever whenever 
Doesn't hold my hands but I know its there
When I fall it cradles me in sweet embrace
I do not know what it is but I know it is here to stay
for ever and forever with you and me...

Colour me green

Fresh green leaves on old majestic trees are like a sudden splash of joy. An Old green gate rolling open into a vast stretch of green grass is my earliest memory. The field dotted with innumerable little people dressed in royal blue and white gave me a sudden burst of excitement.

The grounds were moody rather muddy during rains,light green and yellow with spots of earth in summer...It turned a brilliant hue after the rains and little people marched on the chalk dust lines during winters...the trampled grass came back to life in spring.

Splashes of Red

I have always owned a red dress all my life. whether it be a baby frock as a toddler or a slinky red skirt when I was older...and then the years of living in red t-shirts and then the hand me down red pants which turned everything in the washing machine red. Followed by the red salwar piece of clothing that I have always owned and wear till date is a red riding hood cloak. My grandmother knit it for me..... I always go red in the face whenever I am excited...I wish my face wasn't such an emotional barometer and i wasn't the sentimental fool that I am...


my dreams of being an artist being shattered..


Orange juice and lemon soul for a penny... All the school girls are so many... The grass is green and the rose is red... Remember me when you are dead dead dead... --lines learnt in nursery