The Florist

There is something rigid and artificial about cultivated talents. I always felt so, and after I met her, I was more than convinced about my own opinion. Some people religiously attend piano lessons every week, some take painting classes, and a couple of them gravitate towards a sport to 'stay fit and healthy'. 

She was different.

Her skills grew out of real true passion for art. When I first entered her room, I was left spellbound for a long time. Flowers. Beautiful, colorful, flowers everywhere. Flowers created out of oil paints, sketched out with charcoal, smudged with pastels, decorated with glitter, and blended with poster colors. Large and small canvases. Pretty cuttings of flowers hanging from the curtains, printed on bed-sheets and pillowcases. Even her dresses, I realized were made of light-hued flowery printed fabric.

She had never learnt how to paint. That talent somehow happened right after she fell in love with nature. One day she told me that after she retired, she would stay in some jolly town next to those mountains and rivers and sell flowers. She would be a florist.

I had been 'in love' many times before. Women had entered and left. I didn't know if she was here to stay in my life, but then well, who knew such stuff anyways? Maybe if she left, I'd remember her every year during Spring, when apple blossoms filled those silent canopies. I'd remember her fragrant scent, an exotic mixture of sandalwood and rose. I'd remember her dark eyes, and the Japanese Silk she wore on her 23rd birthday, white with printed cherry blossoms. I'd remember her bubbling smile, full of unconditional happiness and love.

I particularly loved her habit of collecting petals. Every time I gave her a flower, I made sure it was a different one. So that she could add it to that fat flower dictionary she was creating. And deep inside, I hoped and hoped that I never ran out of new flowers.

She will always remind me of nostalgic afternoons in the backyard. Days when all I wanted to do was patch up my hot air balloon or get lost in the orchard or sail down the river to the tranquil harbor. Days when she sat next to me, her head on my shoulder, singing songs that we both loved. Days when she covered her hands with paint and created mosaics on my wall. She will always remind me of fallen eyelashes, maple leaves and carnations.

The first time I saw her, she was looking out of a French window in a cafe down town. She was wearing a light blue dress, with periwinkles on it. On her right hand was a corsage, comprising of a species of white flowers I did not know.
I found it strange and so I asked her.

"Oh, I had worn this on my first prom, almost five years back." she answered. She had a musical voice, like a wood nymph.

Oh, so maybe she had a lover after all. Maybe that guy who had given her the corsage was going to meet  her at this very cafe after I left.
"Did he like you a lot?", I asked out of mere curiosity.
She laughed a lot when she heard this.
"No, he did not. Not at all. But I liked him a lot, so I wear one of these every year. It's a sweet memory, and nothing else."

I smiled to myself. She was one special woman. The future is full of uncertainties, but this woman, I wanted her to stay forever. And as I left the cafe with her by my side, I made a mental note to that man who had left her:

Thanks Bro. You gave me the chance to fall in love with this angelic creature. I owe you one for that.

Beautiful Liars

Dear Sangeetha,

Lying to yourself is sometimes, the only way out.

You know that one instance in Life when you're freakin' scared of that ONE person or insect or phenomenon? Then you shut your eyes/ears/nose to it and suddenly, it's no longer a part of your world. What you don't want to know doesn't scare you.

The TRUTH is that is perhaps the biggest, fattest most idiotic LIE on the planet.

But it works. In the end, it doesn't even matter if you've lied your way through the entire process, as
long as you get the results.



Nowadays, people are too busy being self-obsessed. I meet people who lie that they don't care about what others think, when in reality they do. There are people I've known, who lie and create whole new universes that never really existed. People lie to get out of traps they've built by themselves. Then again, lying comes out of habit.


But lying to yourself, is not so much of a habit as it is a compulsion. Sometimes, you need to convince yourself that the world is indeed a beautiful place when it is as ugly as it can get. Sometimes you need to lie to yourself about how wonderful a person you are, when in reality nobody looks at that aspect of your personality anymore. Sometimes, you lie to yourself that you're indeed the happiest person alive, when actually you're drowning in sorrow. Last but not least, sometimes you HAVE to tell yourself that magic exists, when in reality, it's just a miracle of science.

I boarded my first flight when I was four years old. And I remember the hysterical crying which followed once I heard the boarding announcement. I was scared of heights. And this THING was going to FLY. And then my mum pointed outside and I caught a glimpse of the front wheel of the plane. So this THING had wheels. So if it wanted it could crawl through the runaway and we would somehow reach Singapore yeah? I convinced myself that it would. I lied to myself, to avoid what could be my first panic attack. And then I closed my eyes and slept.

Lying to yourself is different. It's like a sedative for the frantic soul. It keeps you happy, it keeps others happy too. Sometimes you need to live for others. So if I tell you I lied to myself about something, would you support me? I guess you would 'cause that's what best friends do, don't they?

After all, when it comes to keeping our loved ones happy, we are all beautiful liars. I know so. 
Lots of Love,
Me.

Cinderella

He saw her at the ball.

She with her lilac gown

and her silver fan.

Intricate lace of golden thread

Wroughting lines of decor

On her skirt and her face.

A veil with a glassy appearance.

Crystalline slippers anew.

She smiled.

A beautiful rendition of a

memory long-lost.

Her countenance like a painting

of victory and joy.

He noticed the way the blush faded,

after the smile.

The way the eyebrows contracted.

The way the cheeks grew pale.

And he realized,

she was a cloud with a

silver lining.

Dark within, but with

flashes of light. 

He wondered what she hid.

What tremendous pains or

fantasies

That never came true. 

What sleepless nights,

what troubled thoughts that

hid beneath those brown tresses.

She smiled way too much

for a damsel in distress.

For a tragic princess.

Yet, it was evident

the traces of agony on her

flushed face

as she danced the waltz. 

He saw her at the ball.

She with her lilac gown

and her silver fan.

And he never forgot that meeting. 

Solace

The Act of Self-Consolation

I once had the misfortune of arriving too late to watch the sunset at the beach.

The sinking feeling you get when you watch the blood-like smudge of colors in the blue while you are racing down the bridge to catch the last glimpse of that glittering line between earth and sky. It's somewhat like catching the train, yeah? It's somewhat like that.

And when I finally reached the sandy enclosure, the sky had turned dusky, a color of smeared ink on golden parchment paper. The tide was just beginning to rise. I spied the pearly lunate body in the sky, surrounded by sprinkling diamonds. The rocks looked obscure in the darkness, like gigantic craggy mountains in the middle of the sea. The great thing about travelling with friends is, even when the only sound you can hear is the lapping refreshing sound of waves on the shore, you can still hear bursts of magical laughter in the air.

Sometimes an injured heart, a disturbed mind or a depressed soul has no direct cure. Except maybe a journey to a beautiful place. I always made it a point to visit the Riverside or the Beach in times like this. To see that crimson blushing sunset. To watch those harmonic waves go back and forth. Somewhat like the bouncing notes in a piano. Black and white.

I walked down to the shore, over the lovely cascading sand, which felt soft like muslin under my toes. As soon as the cool water touched my feet, I felt elevated. The sublime feeling of cleanliness and calm. Heartache comes and goes. Shit happens. But the sea, is like this body of constancy that knows no change. One small drop makes no difference. No difference at all.

I walked down the beach, following the gentle curvature of the bay. Waves crept up to me and rolled away. I tried to decipher what I was feeling, but suddenly I could remember nothing. Or maybe I could remember everything so well that it made no change at all. Maybe this sounds a lot more philosophical than normal, but I came to realize one thing.

Life should be like the Sea Beach. Where the smooth sand is symbolic of the roses and the sediments would stand for the thorns. And those humongous rocks were solid disasters. Where the sand filters through your fingers like time passes by. Nothing is in your hands. Where the salty taste on your trembling lips, is the bitter taste of uncontrollable tears. Where the gleaming smiles and childish laughter on the shore, would be all the happiness and joyful play that one should embrace. Where the eternal sea would be the human mind, calm and unchanging, but yet adaptable to circumstances.

Graceful in times of bliss, turbulent in times of sorrow.

I looked down at the footprints on the shore. Last but not least, Life's about erasing and moving on. I traced the footprints back across the shore, and with every step they faded away. Some memories are not meant to last, they are meant to be covered by layers of other radiant thoughts. They don't go away, but they get hidden under blankets of sand. If only for temporary satisfaction.


But in the end, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. What makes you feel vulnerable, also lifts you up and commands you to be braver. And somehow, these thoughts played like a whirlwind in my mind. As I walked away, away from that perturbation, I looked back at the beach and felt irrevocably...solaced.

About Stars and Infinities

The Fault, dear Readers, is in our Stars.

"It seemed like forever ago, like we’d had this brief but still infinite forever. Some infinities are bigger than other infinities."

It would be rather cliched for me to start off with a statement like "For the first time in my life, I read a book this outstanding." On the contrary I'd rather say, "I hope I don't have to read another book like this ever again. I cannot imagine a modern literary creation more beautiful than this."

I don't mean to review this book, nor do I mean to praise it. I bet loads of people have done that already. I simply want to grab those quotes, wrench them apart from the immobile text and present to you, the depth, the unfathomable beauty that comes along with them.  

A summer romance, a cancer-stricken lover, and a poignant conclusion has been the recipe for modern tragedies for quite some time. But what sets John Green's The Fault in Our Stars apart from these conventional novels, is the simplicity and straightforwardness of his characters.

While reading this story, I met two of the most extraordinary people. Somewhere in the middle of the diseased atmosphere, I actually fell in love, in the most effortless manner possible. How can anyone depict a romance, so brutally grounded in reality and yet at the same time so ethereal? How can anyone paint the picture of two people, madly in love with each other but still hanging on to the thread of life which is on the verge of tearing apart?

Hazel's characterization of Augustus is breathtaking. Her realization of the harsh truth of life, yet her defiance of all materialistic and emotional barriers when she meets him, is perhaps the bravest move any woman can make in her life. The childish, bubbling infatuation she shares with this good-looking young man, the simple exchange of words...and then she finally concludes, with the statement, 

" You choose your behaviors based on their metaphorical resonances "

Augustus on the other hand, is perhaps the most realistic male protagonist I've come across. His obsession with metaphors, his earnest wish to make Hazel's wishes come true, his mad desire to give her the ending for the unfinished story that she so yearned to know. But what I liked about him the MOST, that I don't think anyone can deny, was his daring metaphorical relationship with a cigarette. Smoking may lead to cancer. But here's a guy who holds the cigarette in between his teeth, and flirts with danger. In the entire story, he never lights it, showing all the people in the world, how he's holding his killer right there in front of him, but not giving them the chance to kill. 

There is a heavenly connection between Hazel and Augustus and it is so beautiful.

 It's remarkable how she, despite the terrors clinging to her future, can still think about his infallible smile and his clarion voice, realizing that with every step, she is falling in love with him. The glorious feeling of listening to a voice, and forgetting everything around you because the speaker, in his true essence, is so melodious. And it all shows after his death, when she dials his number, only to hear his voice mail, only to listen to that voice one last time. Then there is the deep anguish and sorrow after his death. Her fear of being a burden to him, had changed into the unspeakable fear of losing him to Death. 

This is one hell of a love story. Lovers dream about being with each other till "death do us part". But here both boy and girl, are so worried about how they won't be able to live to write the eulogy for the other. Green makes it sound so simple, when in truth, it is perhaps the most painful thought in the world. The thought of pre-funerals and the like, making it almost a childish game. 

The unfair stringent rules of life, almost make it very difficult for us to go out there and proclaim "We are in control of our own Fate". That's where Shakespeare really went wrong when he made Cassius say,

"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars

But in ourselves, that we are underlings."

For truth be told, those who are disabled in the worst ways possible are not underlings, they are as Green puts it across.....side-effects. They are not heroes or fighters or any of those polished beings that doctors, spiritual leaders and preachers claim they are. They are simple normal human beings, who are born to show themselves to the world, earn trophies of love and respect and depart sooner than the rest. They are a world among themselves. They find endlessness within small periods of time. They live more than all of us combined, because for them life is about spending each and every second like there is no tomorrow. 

So when Hazel says, 

"You gave me a forever within the numbered days, and I’m grateful."

she means every word of it. The world is a very unfair place, and we are always bound by vices such as depression, sorrow, jealousy and anger. But if we can grow to radiate happiness in between these dull phases, if we can live every minute without wasting it on small, useless things, we will create infinities too. 

And I'm sure, we will love it.

Falling Out

The mingling scent of Fall,

Orange crispy leaves, 

Crushed about softly.

The fragrance of an eternal

Summer Love blended 

Into the red and brown hues.

I could recall the fragrance

Of his shifty presence

Of the cloudy fancy words

Creating autumnal bliss

Waking up to the sound

Of his low pleasant voice

Resounding, rippling playfully.

Feeling the warmth of 

His touch; the gradual shivers

It blew through me.

Come spring, it's all changed.

The wave-like emotions

Of Love and Hate

Of Faith and Trust. 

Everyone's found a special one

Those who promised to stay,

Have stepped far away.

And I'm more than a bit lonely

In a crowded room

Full of tormenting tones of joy.

As I walk down the pavement,

The springtime darkness

Evokes a creeping fear,

An unexplained sentiment.

It's strange how the aggregation

Of love and happiness can make

the most terrible elements seem bright

Yet when the churning dust of

A fiery feverish Fall settles,

All that's left is a Barren Mind.

If Falling out could feel this way,

Without his fleeting whispers,

Without his reassurance,

With and without sleepless nights.

It's a fight to stay in Love,

To cling on to your loneliness

To smile, when you don't want to,

To laugh, when everyone is,

And to believe that someday

Your thoughts will set you free.