Years later

It was time.

Years had gone by. They had passed in instants. In little pieces. Bit by bit.

He stared outside. Through the translucent white material, that was cloaked in hues of gold, from the rays of the sun. The rays that were struggling to get in. But getting muffled. By the cloth lapping them up in fluid dance movements.

The years did not come back. The moments did not come back. But the feelings did. Because they were deep. They went beyond memories.

He thought back to those first moments. But they were also cloaked. In halos. Bright lights coming in the way of detailed memories. Just faces and smiles. The rest struggled. It was muffled by the light and the moments. It was the same moment played over and over again.

Bit by bit. The little pieces had their own meaning. The instants did not always have to add up to a whole. The years did not have to connect to each other.

It was time.

A photograph (and fifty five words)

The flickering light danced and created shadows along the wall.

These five pieces had disappeared years ago. Each one carried a secret. Carefully etched, in the patterns that they held, on their surface.

One clue, led to another.

But, they were only clues.

The answer, lay in the lantern.

But, no one cared to look.

Fifty five words (and a photograph)

Click.

Back then. She saw him photographing the beautiful sky. It was an orange dusk.

Click.

He saw her from the corner of his eye looking at him.

Click.

They smiled at each other. A moment was born.

Click.

A sea of memories raged through.

Click.

Cut to today. Another orange dusk. Coffee. Conversations. More.

Close

And then you come to terms with it. That it has all been one, big, elaborate lie. The beginning was a lie, as was the ending.

Beautiful, isn’t it? It started with a lie and ended with a lie. Everything in between was a whirlwind. Everything in between was the truth. Everything in between was every moment that he wanted to live and relive. Everything in between will now be forgotten. Because of this moment. Because of this last lie.

They move closer to each other. Shifting perspectives. Making compromises. Feeling feelings.

As he looks on, he recalls those first moments. How they came about. And as he recalls it bit by bit, the story begins to blur, to edit itself into its own story. Into beginnings and endings. Everything in between is forgotten. Everything in between is frozen in another time. A parallel universe.

He remembers the contradiction of that final delicate harsh moment. How it defined them. Everything that meant anything all rolled into one.

His footsteps squelched of the rain that stopped five minutes ago. There was a feeling of mist in the air, but there was no mist. Just pregnant moments. The coffee had a drying effect as it swirled in his mouth. Something was about to happen.

Thousands of miles away a sad feeling crept in. It was not as easy as it had seemed. One lie had not led to another. It led to the truth. The only way to end it was another lie. Strange. That is not what they warn you about lying. But then, life is ironical.

You are back where you started. But not exactly.

Running through

You run through the motions of everyday life, and let everything pass you by.

You don’t look into the details of the smaller things that are going on. The beauty that passes you by, every instant. The times when you wish you had your camera with you, because you saw something that you wanted to capture forever and look at it again and again. These are the times when you create memories.

You don’t need to capture every moment for later, she says. I think about it. No, I don’t need to capture every moment. But I want to capture this moment. For this is the moment that I not only want to remember, but I want to see. I sometimes want to see and then remember the moment. A memory is not always enough, you see.

How can I remember the clouds that embraced the mountain today? Will I remember it tomorrow? Yes. One week later? Maybe. A month later? Maybe not. A year later? I don’t think so. Will I remember it if I see it? Of course. Pity I didn’t have my camera with me though. This will be another lost moment that will fade away.



What does this picture mean to you? Nothing. Just a pretty play of colours and maybe some technical accomplishment with the lens. What does it mean to me? Much more. It captures the moment. It has nothing to do with the moment though. It just happened to be there and I happened to have my camera and I happened to see it so I happened to click it and not think anything about it till I saw it now, again.

Sometimes, pictures make memories for me.

Capacious

The birth of an idea.
The beginning of creation.
An empty canvass.
That is all it takes.
To start a work of art.
In the simplest of ways.
In the most complicated of forms.
It comes out.
Because the mind is capacious.
So it creates.

Quartet

You cross the moment, looking for that fleeting second chance. You catch his eyes and look to see if he feels the same way. They smile at you and move on, across the room. The room is a blur, the noises are muffled. He mingles. One by one. Till he reaches you. But he doesn’t say anything. You don’t say anything. But you know, this is the moment. You are looking for that second chance. But there are no second chances honey. Not when you don’t take the first one. You blew it.

You miss the instant, because you were drowning in memories amiss. You see her searching you out in the crowd, drawing you. Your eyes twinkle, seeing her across the room. The path is clear, there is a sudden silence. She disconnects. Here and there. Till you reach her. But you don’t know what to say. She is waiting. Now you feel, maybe this is not the time. How can this be the time? It was never meant to be. Not before. Not now.

You catch it happening, when you were looking for something else. You see them connect, like they did before. No acknowledgement, just a connection, perfect and unpretentious. They move towards each other. Meeting others. On the way. Till they are together. It looks like they are silent. But there is so much going on beneath. You can see it, they were meant to be. You wonder if it was all a lie. About nothing having happened. Of course it did. It’s obvious.

You almost didn’t see it, because you could never see it happen. You see them notice each other for the first time. They linger, taking the moment in slowly. Meanwhile, the room is bustling with activity. They struggle to get to the other. But manage, eventually. Till they face each other. There is an awkward moment. They both try to speak but stop, waiting for the other. So, this is how they meet. This is how things happen. It comes out of nowhere. Just like that. Anytime.

The fire inside

Early morning, or that is what the watch says. I am up a few hours earlier than usual. As my eyes try to focus on the outside of the window, I realise that it is still dark. Pitch dark. Traces of amber from outside stream into my eyesight. And the outside starts to form. It slowly takes shape into the familiar. Into what I saw last night, before I went to sleep. There is nothing new about it. As usual.

I go through my daily rituals with mechanical preciseness. The razor is sharp and unforgiving. One miss, and the blood appears and slowly spreads. The sting of a good after shave. Not numbing, no pleasure-in-the-pain. But a sting. A plain, simple, bee sting. Eyes close tight to make the pain disappear. Creating crow feet that tug at the ears. The pressure builds up and fades into the sting. It lingers for a few minutes.

One flick and the newspaper is in my hands. Forgotten heroes in the middle, the nouveau don the outside covers. The words eat into each other. Some headlines expected, some not. Some shocking, some trying to be but can't. Each one evaluated, before giving the rest of the story a miss. One headline passes by the other, like small towns on a long drive. The details are the rest of the journey. Like signposts waiting to be read, the rest to be experienced. It all sinks in.

Pitter patter. It's drizzling outside. The rain falls in slow motion before dawn. Have you ever noticed that? Drops hit the puddles on the ground, and then dissolve into them. Shoes make their way across the puddle. Giving them a new shape with each step. Spread contract spread contract. Ripples follow. But too small to be noticed. What is left behind, stays behind.

Droplets on the window play tricks with the night lights, as they prism their way through. Towards me. Greens, ambers and reds whizz by. Everydays are coming back to me. Slowly. Some drops trace their way towards what they are leaving behind, as the pace gets too much for them. Others hold their ground with resolve. The patterns created by this dance and movement mesmerize into a recipe for perfectly pointless philosophy.

The battered remains of yesterday have dissolved. Today is a new day. A new drama. And it starts unfolding this precise moment.

I feel it burn inside of me, sometimes. Sometimes it is mellow, sometimes it rages.

Real life approaches.

Renaissance

Soggy memories
Soaked
In the rain

Seemingly simple
Secrets shared
Between us



Connections instantly
Created
When we met

Complete communion
Coming closer
After you left

Rife

The shadows stretched across the grass like a warm liquid running through. As the clouds moved over the skies, the liquid of the shadows spread and turned the light to darkness. A gusty wind blew across the leaves that were lying about, untended. The air was rife with a feeling of contemplated casualness.

The skin on her bare shoulders glistened as the light came back on to it. It enveloped her in its embrace of shadows and reflections. The light played tricks on her skin and hair, making her look larger than life. Making her the foreground and the world her background. The air was rife with a feeling of sensual sentiments.

Then, she turned. In slow motion. As she turned, the rest of the clouds seemed to make way for her. They moved over, making the liquid of the shadows recede back into their original self. Light permeated through the grass. The leaves settled down as the wind moved away to another destination. The air was rife with a feeling of parallel possibilities.