War of the Worlds!

Did I think there would be a day, when I would no longer only wonder, what it would feel like to be a victim of the forces of nature?
The sky was overcast and the rains came suddenly, with no premonition of the intensity of the attack..
Caught unawares, the city was slow to react..
We've seen lots of rain before, but as the water pelted unceasingly, one realised that this wasnt a normal rainy day.
While I write this the entire city is plunged in darkness and many many feet of water..
I dont know when I will be able to leave work or reach home.
People have braved the rain...and remained stuck for the last 6 hours or more, in various modes of transport; Trains have been stopped. Flights cancelled; Cars float on flooded streets. People abandon umbrellas, accepting the futility and plodding on in waist deep water;
Anxiety runs high...contact to be established with family, friends, colleagues. One hears of a person gone missing. One hears rumours of water running 8 feet high...
The streets are enveloped in a shroud of darkness...broken in places by the dim headlights from slow traffic - of those who were brave to venture out of the office building and had to return. Telephone lines stopped working; Cellular phones have intermittent network; Air-conditioning switched off; lifts have stalled; circuits have blown a fuse; all modes of communication severed;
The cafetaria was raided savagely, people willing to chew on dry bread; Others pooling in forgotten remnants of biscuits, nuts, candy from drawers; one person contributing a bottle of whiskey from the boot of the car!
The financial capital of India, the pulse of a country of millions - brought to a standstill, the populations held hostage, by a superior force.
And I sit hear, with an open glass pane - the breeze on my face, bringing frequent splashes of water...watching..cant help admiring the music of the rain, the darkness interspersed with the myriad colours of fleeting headlights, of one solitary halogen lamp casting an orange glow, of dark figures splashing on flooded streets...and the night that has no end...

WHAT SHALL WE CALL THIS?

She swings by on an olive branch
Interrupting his banana lunch;
Batting her lashes, stroking her tail
Flirting with this rhesus male;

He falls for her coquetish looks;
In a couple of days, she's got him hooked
In the courtyard, they play and prance;
And engage in a monkey dance;

From her hair, he picks out bugs
Showers on her frequent hugs;
But this blissful time didnt last
Her actions left him quite aghast;

He sends her peanuts, a special treat;
She's on a diet; "sorry cannot eat";
"Were you waiting?" "Forgot to call";
Or, "got busy"; "was at the waterfall";

Excuses abound, in the days that follow
Caused him heartache, angst and sorrow;
Confused by this sudden change
He grapples with her actions strange;

The more she played hard to get,
The more it made him yearn & fret;
Till on good advice oneday,
A different tac he tries to play;

Stops the efforts to get a reaction;
Ceases to give her any attention;
Busy with other monkey friends
Away from her, his time, he spends;

Predictably she swings on by
Imploring, with monkey eyes;
She doesn't find anything amiss
Prior endearing behaviour persists;

He didnt budge, nor play the game,
His love for her, he didnt proclaim;
The more attention she did bestow
The easier it was, to let her go

In the absence of, a better name,
Lets call this act the Monkey Game.

Rain

Smell of earth; Teasing, tantalising;
Grey day, green grass, outlines blurring;

Orange streetlights; darkened daytime;
Anticipation runs subtly sublime;

Tender trickles, down the face;
Droplets rest, the lips are glaced.

Silence broken; rhythmn permeating;
Steady beats reverberating;

Frenzied showers, sting and soothe;
No colour of rain; Mere blinded hues;

Drums of thunder roll on by
Lightning breaks an even sky

The moment passes, sensations cease;
Touched, imbued, cleansed, released.

Without an End

She watches;
He sits alone;

Surreal aura;
Sepia tones;

The picture of
An empty bench,

Grief & loneliness
Entrenched.

Sea meet sky
In a burst of light;

She squints against
The shock of bright.

Broken by a
Patch of green.

Distant memory,
Hazy dream.

Or was it
Peace & solitude,
To which this was,
A mere prelude?

While time stood still
With silence filled.
She captured the moment,
this would be hers.

Unexplained,
for all the years.

Murphy's diktat for travel

At the end of long nights (and days) of frantic activity in preparation for the meetings that one needs to travel for, I have a flight to catch, with tickets waitlisted, emmigration check not cleared, visa unobtained and an absconding travel agent who's mobile treats me to a remix version of a song called "Pardesiya". Most Charming.
I have visions of the airplane getting ready to take off and me standing at the airport, while the travel agent does a slow motion sprint holding my passport in one hand and tickets in the other...and like the baton of a relay...hands me the entire sheaf of travel documents...so I can (in slow motion) sprint to the counter.....and hand it over...and then sprint (again in slow motion) to board the aircraft just as the doors are closing (this has alternate shots of me sprinting...door inching shut ...me sprinting...door inching ...me sprinting...door inching ...me sprinting...door inching ...you get the idea?) and in true hindi movie style...all the passengers (including one turban clad sardar Gulluji, his wife Pappi and their top-knot turbanned children harvinder and gurinder, swami with white streaks on his forehead wearing white kurta and veshti, bannerjee in soda bottle glasses and his garrulous wife with shakha-pola bangles, one safari-suit-clad-gold-chain-jangling-pan-chewing-cell phone using Pandeyji, 1 NRI, 1 model, the cabin crew in blue outfits and a blur of other faces) applaud as I sink into my seat...
However, in keeping with Murphy's laws, I have a middle seat & the seat next to me is not occupied by that one person who I have always loved and never told...or by articulate individual closer to my age, who I strike a conversation with, & which promises to be the beginning of greater things to come....instead I have large grumpy 55yr old vegetarian man on one side (who keeps looking disgusted at my non-veg meal) and on the other side - smelly snoring aunty who keeps nodding off on my shoulder and I have to keep shaking her oily head off mercilessly.And instead of bliss on my face, I shall have a look of utter disgust and a sincere amazement on why I didnt just cease and desist from making this damn trip.
Afterthought: Come to think of it, I havent met anyonewho has had a wonderful air trip.

Happily Ever After

Charles Perrault was the first person responsible for weaving magic for her, between covers of prettily illustrated fairy tales...followed by other forms of literature (including the quintessential MB) providing wings to her teenage dreams..
Her Singapore based parents encouraged those dreams by pushing for offshore based suitable boys & festering the belief that marriage is the ultimate sign of success. Plying her with suitor after suitor....off to a great start on phone calls, emails ...invariably ending after a few meetings.
(The song/dance-laden-happy-family-wedding sequence created by the likes of Rajshri Productions didnt help either).
The aggregated effect left one educated urban woman firmly enconsed in the belief that her weight (& not her clingyness) drove men away. So this pretty, intelligent woman, with a successful career assesses every man she meets on a scale of probability...unconsciously ceasing to be herself, every action laced with an intent to effect, her coyness & desire to please or establish a connection consequently changing her inate personality. Extra-curricular activities consisting of endless "lets meet for drinks/coffee/dinner/movie" with mr.imperfect, a phase of interest, slowly petering off and an unending sojourn for mr. near perfect which carries on. The agenda doesnt change. Weeknights merge into weekends; Friends become lovers; Lovers choose to be just friends; Friends cease to be friends. Lovers cease to be lovers. Robbing her of the last vestiges of confidence, the heartbreak recurrs, till there is a new focus...will he be the One?

I dont judge her; I cant change her; I merely hold her tight, while she sobs on my shoulder. And promise myself never to succumb to the premium placed on such yardsticks of success & happiness.

Lost in Translation

Hidden, originally uploaded by Itineranting.

I once saw a film, which, in its English (and international) translation was called Cloud Capped Star.
In its original language, the director, Ritwik Ghatak, called it "Meghe Dhaka Tara".
Only people familiar with the regional language will be privy to the simplicity & beauty of the original title and its relevance to the film.
I have always loved language, vernacular or otherwise, enthralled by the artistry of words. And there comes a point in time ever so frequently, when I am reminded of the true essence of the phrase - lost in translation.