Celebrating small wonders

On Silence- 1.

2009-01-04T02:02:00.003Z

Its dark. Its wonderful. Its constantly interspersed with flashes of the mind which I watch and ignore and watch again. Its a deep breath. Its raw and pure and naked. Its now. Its courage. Its home.

Born to Dance.

2009-01-04T01:51:00.002Z

I am struggling in the search for inspiration. I am struggling to find words which come extremely close to describing the feeling. Perhaps there are none. Perhaps not everything can be written down. And perhaps those are the very things that I dance out. Those are the things that can only be danced out. Only be felt in the beat of the music and the beat of my heart. Still struggling. Still wondering. Still watching. Is that a tear I find tentatively forming? I feel. I feel. I feel. I feel. I feel. I dance. I move. I feel. And in the midst of the sweet madness, everything disappears. There is no one watching. And no one to be watched.

Lone Dancer.

2008-10-28T19:17:00.003Z

I am a lone dancer
Moving and swaying and breathing
and being the dance
Suddenly, another fellow dancer joins the dance I'm in
We are moved by the same rhythm
Together, we are creating a dancing symphony
We are no longer 'we'
But just moving energies in sync
It is exhilerating

My dance was the sweet notes of a piano
And his, the soft strumming of a guitar
And together, we are such a joyful melody

But one must not forget
That even when the guitar stops playing
The sounds of the piano
Are still as sweet as ever
And I keep breathing, swaying, moving, being
I am a lone dancer.

Hazy lines. (working title)

2008-05-26T15:17:00.003+01:00

It is just past seven pm and it’s raining outside. I am sitting in my living room surrounded by orange pillows, tall candles in hand painted jars, books about planning spontaneous holidays, an old cd player, a paper hat from last night’s dinner party and a sympathy card from a well meaning friend.

I am sipping on it slowly, just like he had taught me. I am slightly overcome by its subtle, sweet taste. It reminds me of flowers in a meadow and walking barefoot on wet grass. Eyes closed, I breathe in its flavour and fullness before each sip I take. I peer through the glass bottle and watch my imagination turning dark green.

The email had said she loved him.

I smirkingly wonder if she knows that he has a tiny birthmark on his left foot, that he loves pumpkin ravioli with fresh basil and that he stops snoring when touched on his belly.

But looking within, it’s easy to see that envy is nothing more than an attempted substitute for raw and quivering sadness.

I think about why it had taken us so long to look through the fantasy beings we had become for one another. I think about why I had chosen not to notice that his laughter had lost its wholehearted tinkle. Why hadn’t we acknowledged the fact that both of us had taken off on journeys of our own, and neither of us had left behind a little post-it note on the fridge explaining why and where we were going.

The thing about letting your tears flow freely is that if you let them flow long enough, not only do they stop of their own accord, but they also leave you with unusual clarity and sometimes a sense of wonder.

This time, I am left wondering about the beginning that is hidden in this seeming end. Because I have come to realise that all endings are full of surprising beginnings.

The phone rings. I say yes and also suggest the restaurant.

I am looking forward to meeting a new person today.

Dancing for myself.

2008-03-23T17:49:00.005Z

I always envied Billy Elliot. I envied the way he discovered dance and then spent the rest of his life rejoicing in that discovery. I envied that firm, empowering expression that spread across his face every time the music flowed through his body like electricity and his feet tapped against the ground, solidly, passionately, dictated by the rhythm.

I envied Billy Elliot until the day I realised he lives in every one of us and he certainly lives in me. The realisation took place in that precise moment when my toes were stretched; my feet above the ground and my hands were cutting through the air like a bird in flight.

I spent three hours last Saturday evening dancing for myself. There were probably about thirty other people in that room, but each of them was immersed in a dance of their own. We were together in our aloneness.

I danced openly, fluidly, creatively. I didn’t know whether I was dancing or whether the dance was me. I danced for everything that was good and everything that was bad and everything that was somewhere in between. As I danced, a thousand thoughts and feelings that had been hiding somewhere within suddenly erupted. I welcomed them all. I danced through them all.

I was flowing. I was in staccato. I was chaotic. I was lyrical. I was still.

I danced. One movement to another. One moment to another.

And in the middle of the dance, I discovered a place within me which I didn’t know existed, but a place to which I will return for a long time to come.

Mental picture memories.

2008-03-10T15:01:00.004Z

I once read that the best memories are often not captured by the camera.

I think there is much truth contained in that statement. It seems rather ironic that in the midst of a beautiful moment, we find the need to suddenly pull out a small, digital device to help us record that moment, freeze it in time and attempt to render it eternal. I think the need to capture everything worth remembering on camera has a lot to do with man’s love for permanence and the desire to make things last ‘forever’.

This is by no means meant to be an assault on photography.

It’s just that I sometimes wonder whether special moments would be more special if not interrupted by the need to huddle up for a group photograph and smile into the camera as proof of what a wonderful time was being had.

Do you think you would spend more time and effort in creating and later recalling memories if you didn’t have an ‘easy-recall tool’ in the form of a photograph?

Given that such thoughts have occupied my mind, I guess it was rather a blessing when my friend forgot to bring her camera to our retreat in Wales last weekend. I must admit that my initial reaction was one of sheer disappointment. After all, it wasn’t everyday that the four of us spontaneously decided to drive away from the city and spend the weekend in the midst of the Welsh countryside.

However, I quickly got over my disappointment and decided to attempt a slightly different method of capturing my memories of this weekend. Instead of using a camera to take photographs, I would use my mind to create mental pictures of special moments. In other words, I would focus on being in the moment and living each moment as strongly and completely as I possibly could. In doing so, I hoped that the memory of those moments would be firmly etched across my mind and hence stay with me for a long time to come, without any physical evidence such as a photograph.

It seemed slightly odd at first, but pretty soon I was doing it all the time. Take for instance that lazy Saturday afternoon when the four of us were huddled together on the bed, watching films, drinking hot tea and every now and then, glancing at the window opposite us to appreciate what nature was up to- the rumbling grey skies, the pattering raindrops and the bare trees awaiting the advent of spring.

Another mental picture I strongly recall is that long walk we took along a rather isolated beach. I remember closing my eyes and trying to smell the salt in the air, because that is a smell I closely associate with home. I remember learning something about a friend and being amazed at how interesting it is to discover new things about the people close to you. I remember minutes of talk beautifully interspersed with moments of silence. I remember feeling that looking at the ocean often puts things into a strange sort of perspective.

Yet another vivid mental picture I have is that of us walking through the enchanting city of Bath. We strolled past majestic houses, charming churches and streets lined with inviting, little shops. We enjoyed and appreciated the sunshine; our elusive friend whom we knew wouldn’t stay with us for very long. We watched a delightful comedy act which filled the street with laughter. I remember thinking that if a few men dressed in pink tutus could evoke such unadulterated laughter from all of us, perhaps the pursuit of happiness is much simpler than we think it is.

I must admit that without photographs, my world, or at least my bedroom wall would be a much duller place. But if I were to look back on the times when I have been the happiest, the saddest, the most excited, the most vulnerable, or in other words, times when I have experienced any sort of emotion in the extreme- none of those times have been accurately captured in the form of a photograph. So while it might have been nice if my friend had brought her camera to Wales, I don’t think my memories of this fantastic weekend are any less strong because she didn’t. In fact, they might just be stronger.

Sunday Morning Pancakes

2008-01-24T16:25:00.000Z

Sunday mornings and pancakes go together beautifully.

I remember groggily walking into the kitchen on a Sunday morning (generally, a morning very close to being blended into afternoon) hopelessly hungover and praying to find pancakes. And a lazy, slightly mischievous, but mostly relieved smile would wipe across my face when I saw them there. They were always there. Neatly stacked up on our chequered table, almost like they appeared by magic. I liked to imagine elves creeping into our kitchen at midnight to make us pancakes, while we were away drinking and dancing and generally behaving badly as you do on Saturday nights. Of course I knew the pancakes weren’t the magical creation of kindly elves. But it was hard to imagine Anna battling a brutal hangover and waking up at some inappropriately early hour on Sunday, just to make sure I got the perfect pancake breakfast I loved so much. Pancakes with Anna defined my Sundays for a whole year. I looked forward to them, talked about them with other people and even marked them in my diary, as you do with all important events.

Anna liked hers with sugar and lemon. I had mine with bananas and chocolate sauce. Sometimes we exchanged and sometimes we both had them with fruit. Our pancake sessions generally lasted about two hours and in that time, we discussed any number of relevant things. Details from last night’s party, the weather forecast, the predicted direction of our careers, why the neighbours shagged so loudly, why Anna missed her mum so much but refused to call her, how we didn’t care that we didn’t have boyfriends and what would happen if we just packed our bags one day and left for Argentina without telling anyone.

The Argentina plan was generally discussed last because that very thought, that very slightest existence of possibility, would whisk us away in to a world of fantasy from which it was rather hard to recover and come back to the realities of our seemingly mundane existences.

But I knew that Sunday was different. And I knew the conversation wasn’t over once we had landed at Buenos Aires airport.

I knew from the way Anna looked at her nails as she talked to me and from the way she laughed a bit too wholeheartedly at my rather juvenile jokes. But most of all, I knew because of her eyes. Because her eyes suffered from an inability to conceal. Her eyes always wanted to give you the full story.

‘Cancer.’ she blurted out, in the blunt, cut-to-the-chase manner that was so characteristic of Anna Campbell. ‘They reckon I have another year.’

Her manner was calm, somewhat unmoved. But her voice was tense and ever so slightly shaken.

Ten minutes later and I was still silent. Why was I silent? How come none of the thousand questions bursting in my head made their way through my mouth? How come I didn’t hug her, or burst into tears or display any sort of emotion for that matter? I just sat in my chair, numb.

She looked at me and smiled. It was a smile I knew. A delicate but firm smile. A smile which told me she had accepted and moved on, so I had better catch up. A smile which said she didn’t want to talk about it, but she would listen if I felt like talking.

A smile which gradually became bigger and bigger until I realised there was something else I didn’t know about.

‘I talked to your boss’ she said, as she put down two tickets to Argentina on the table in front of us.

Midnight Dance at Covent Garden.

2008-01-20T22:21:00.000Z

I don’t know why I left the club early that Friday night. The band was great, the drinks were flowing and most unexpectedly, I was sort of being chatted up by a semi-cute guy. But somehow, after my second mojito, it was time for me to get going. My friends were surprised; after all, we had'nt started dancing and didn’t I always say a Friday evening wasn’t complete without a bit of dancing?

Walking towards the underground station, I found myself smiling. It was one of those rare occasions where you don’t know the reason why you are smiling. Or perhaps, you know that there isn’t a reason at all, and that is precisely what makes your act of smiling so special. I take these unexpected, jubilant, reasonless smiles as a reaffirmation of the fact that I am exactly where I am meant to be. I don’t know why I am here and most certainly don’t know where I will be next. But none of that matters, because none of that is right now.

I had almost reached the underground station, when on an impulse I turned back and decided to go for a walk. There were a few drops of rain. Rain light enough to be charming.

I walked around the piazza, with my hands in my pockets. As I walked, I thought about everything, whilst thinking of nothing. I felt lonely, while enjoying my solitude. I walked knowing not why I was walking but because it felt like the right thing to do, the only thing to do.

I turned round the corner, and then suddenly stopped when I heard him. A busker. Telling me I looked wonderful tonight. Eyes closed, he sang with fervour, intent and sheer delight. A captive audience of five looked on. They were all smiling. I wondered if they knew why.

I felt his music in every way that it is possible to feel music. The rain was a bit heavier now. But neither the rain nor the strange looks I received from some of the passers by were going to take me away from this dark, magical corner in Covent Garden where I found myself dancing for no reason on a Friday night.

Unexpected greeting cards.

2008-01-03T15:21:00.001Z

While email is fast, convenient and often practical, it isn’t quite as charming as traditional post. I sometimes wonder what kind of a world it would be if we didn’t have the option of conveying messages electronically. It would be a slower world for sure. But would it also be a world filled with more excitement, thrills and surprises? Would it be a more personalised world? A world where having to wait for something, even something small, would enhance the joy of finally receiving it?

This Christmas, one of my personal missions was to send greeting cards to three people who would have never expected to hear from me. And of course, the plan was to send these cards by post- the good old ‘stamp licking’ and ‘waiting in the never-ending post office queue’ kind.

I must say it was quite a challenge trying to find their addresses. Of course, I could have just emailed them to ask. But that seemed like a gross contradiction to my old-fashioned approach. And of course, a perfect way to ruin the surprise. After several hours of Facebook scavenging and making random (not to mention, slightly awkward) phone calls to common friends and friends-of-friends, I had the addresses. It was surprising to learn that none of them were in the countries where I had first met them, several years ago.

So I bought the cards and as usual, failed miserably at my attempt to write ‘brief’ messages. I rambled on with lengthy updates, eager questions and lots of well-meant wishes. And at the end, I included my current postal address, thereby suggesting that a thank-you message by email would simply not suffice. I also underlined my postal address in bold red, hopefully implying that I would kill them if they didn’t send me the hand-written reply I expected.

As I walked home from the post office later that day, I was thoroughly pleased at the thought of my friends in different corners of the world browsing through bills, bank statements, advertising pieces and other items that are usually stuffed into one’s letterbox, and then suddenly finding a Christmas card from a faraway friend.

Purposeful presents.

2008-01-02T16:19:00.000Z

Buying presents is a simple and fine art. I would even go as far as saying that finding the right present for someone can be more fun and pleasurable than the actual act of giving the present to them.

For me, a good present is one with purpose. One may be tempted to argue that almost any present can be purposeful. For instance, even the hideous yellow blouse with large purple flowers I once received from a distant aunt served it’s purpose by being donated to a charity shop and hence clothing someone less privileged. But this isn’t what I mean by a present with purpose. Purposeful presents are unique. They are backed by immense research and they relate to some specific, individual and passionate interest of their intended recipients. Purposeful presents tell stories. They are thoughtful. They have been found through a process that was painstaking and time-consuming but thoroughly enjoyable. Purposeful presents are those you keep searching for, even when you can get away with buying a bottle of wine.

The best time to buy such presents is when you are not required to buy them. In other words, it is more likely that you will find the perfect turquoise necklace for your sister (which would match her favourite cocktail dress and also enhance the depth of her light blue eyes) as you are walking down a market in a foreign country during your summer holidays than at a big christmas sale in one of the high street stores.

But even buying the right present is only half the story. I find that wrapping it up and personalising it is just as important. I believe that presents are not things. They are wrapped up little experiences. And I like to heighten the experience my present offers by including a little message, a quote, a drawing or perhaps a private joke. I like the present to have a touch of me. Like it is a piece of art that I want to sign my name on.

This year, I had a wonderful time buying presents for my friend Ben and his family who had invited me to spend Christmas with them. The presents were few, but I hope they were found purposeful.

Private jokes.

2008-01-02T16:17:00.000Z

There is something uniquely beautiful about sharing a joke with a friend; knowing that the two of you are the only people in the world who understand it. These jokes will never seem funny when explained. They are not meant to be explained. In fact, the explanation destroys and disrespects the humour. These jokes are simply meant to be cherished. Cherished by those who create them. They are meant to be remembered. Remembered as fond memories, that can be recalled once in a while. Because when recalled, they have the ability to make you laugh till you cry. They have the ability to inspire you, remind you of wonderful times and help you realise how easy it is to be happy.

Drizzly visions from a coffee cup.

2008-01-02T16:13:00.000Z

An ordinary Thursday morning in the midst of the monsoon found me seated in a quiet cafe; my empty notebook and a hot cup of coffee being all the company I had.

I had chosen my favourite seat next to the small window in the corner of the room. I'm not sure why I liked that particular seat so much. Probably because the people outside gave me the illusion I was not alone without disrespecting my privacy.

Outside, I could see children wrapped in colourful raincoats, getting drenched in the monsoon showers, splashing around in puddles, ignoring their mothers' concerns about catching a cold, teaching me a thing or two about a worriless existence. Nature too seemed to have given herself a makeover and was now dressed in a layer of lush green.

A young couple was walking down the road sharing a single umbrella, whispering and laughing, sometimes pretending to be annoyed by the rain as they evidently enjoyed every bit of it. I smiled as I wondered whether they were genuinely oblivious or whether they were choosing to ignore that second umbrella lying unused in the girl’s shoulder bag.

The roadside tea seller, normally intimidated by his corporate competitors was wearing a big, broad grin as customers kept lining up, faster than his hands could work. For he knew he could not offer them the fancy décor and the comfortable couches and the trendy music. Or even cups and saucers which matched for that matter! But who needed those luxuries when they could be seated in natures lap, relishing some hot, sweet chai.

The entire city seemed doused in a monsoon mood. The rains had arrived and brought with them hope and enery and life defining spirit.

Here and Now

2008-01-02T16:03:00.000Z

Being awoken every morning
By the chirping of the birds
And the sunlight pouring through my window
I stop and remind myself
Of the beauty of this moment

Sitting in a quiet seaside café
Breathing the aroma of fresh coffee
Reading a book
Listening to the song my father used to sing to me
I smile
I stop and remind myself
Of the beauty of this moment

Hugging a friend
Saying ‘see you later’ and not ‘goodbye’
Telling her she has made my life more beautiful
My lips start curving into a smile
Just when my eyes well up with tears
I stop
I remind myself
Of the beauty of this moment

Writing a poem
Watching my pain manifest into words
Being broken
Being inspired
I stop and remind myself
Of the beauty of this moment.

It often seems to me
That life is nothing but an appreciation
Of beauty
Of simplicity
Of the present
Life is nothing
But the here and the now.