She’s not Fiction anymore!

I still remember my first experience with a book. I fell in love with her the moment I saw her, head over heels, weak in my knees.

It was a peculiar relationship wherein the more I got to know her, the more she changed - mercurial in every sense of the word.

She was blushing in the beginning, slowly revealing herself, page by page checking if I can endure her full recital. I just listened, mouth wide agape with wonder as she slowly disrobed for me to take a peek at her joyful contours.

Sometimes she was all witty and sarcastic in her wodehousian avatar, but when she talked about the horrors of 'partition' or the pain that the Danish prince had to endure, I was shell shocked and couldn't control my tears. I hated her for doing that to me.

But she always did, and opened me up to subtler nuances, where it wasn't all black or white. It took her a lot of time to teach me the true nature of grey. And now I realize why, for she wanted me to grow up to understand all its shades.

There were times when her voice had a poetic undertone as she spoke about the tender dew drops on the winter wheat, or about the west running brook and the solitary daffodil; of less traveled roads in snowy evenings or of high flying albatross in the sky’s canopy. And every time she did, I felt as if there was a new sky; A new earth; unblemished by the scars of the past - something worthwhile to live for.

She teased me with rhetoric, quizzed me as to be or not to be?

I was confused and told her I hope to 'be' someday. 'Hope' she said, might be a good thing, but is still a placebo; just like God.  I had a little too much philosophy that day.

People say she’s is just someone’s imagination. She makes it up. You are just a hopeless romantic. Time to call it a spade

But they haven’t held her in their arms; they haven’t let her caress their soul or allowed her to chisel them bit by bit into a fine sculpture; they haven’t had a conversation with her in the middle of the night, argued with her and then understood the futility of the argument. Neither have they been tele-ported to the universe having a restaurant at the end of it, of oddly numbered platforms and of odder nose sizes.

I wish they surrender themselves like Eliza Doolittle to Professor Higgins and experience the magical transformation in themselves. Magical yet you’ll believe it to be the truth, and for a moment it indeed is.

Because now when I speak, I realize she speaks through me, the wisdom of a billion bards.  

And when she holds my hand gently and says look Sushil, that’s how love was made, that’s why you should take a leap of faith, that’s where you will find the pillar for platform 9^3/4 , that’s the heel which was left unprotected, that’s the pond where a kid like you used to sit alone and pen his poems,

I realize she’s not fiction any more!

Monsoon musings

Serenity is the last thing that one would expect when he lands at a place where chaos rules the roost. With curious eyes scanning the millions who were juggling their lives between local train platforms and figuring out the right proportion of work-life balance as well as bhaji-pav balance in their breakfast, I prepared myself to be one with Mumbai –‘the city of contradictions’ and boarded a local train to have a glimpse of what awaited me.

There, suddenly like a bolt from the blue, the magic happened. The pregnant clouds looming around the skyscrapers united together to erupt, and the WATER BROKE!! What it ‘delivered’ was sheer bliss.

A lone ripple having an orangy tint of a blooming chrysanthemum swiftly germinated from the thud of the rain drop and slowly dissolved into the placid pond. Colorful umbrellas sprouted suddenly and formed a halo around the city like confetti on a bride.

It was that sort of a moment, when the pristine rain drops became questions, and I answered them back in kisses, when the metropolis wore the chic bridal look and was unscarred of all the dust and deceit, when everything was pristine like cobblestones and oceans –a painter’s delight.

And in this moment of epiphany I realized the monsoon carried a story – A story of a city getting atoned for its sins, or that of a city getting goodies from Santa for being the well behaved child, either case the monsoons were the sole harbinger of hope for a desperate city.

The story struck a chord within me, and therein I found my inspiration. There might be days filled with frustration and unexpected accidents, where the local I’ve between waiting for an hour would be of the western line and not of the harbor line that I intend to board, but there are always a few blessings that make those frustrating moments worthwhile. Like the monsoons, they might be a bit late, but deep down I knew I can definitely count on them to provide a fresh gush of blood through my veins.

And I, the virgin mumbaikar, wish this monsoon just stays.

Because when I go back home to dry Chennai, I wish to carry vivid images of these mirthful memories, to store them in a tiny little private abode of mine, the same place where old Wodehouse books and Bourbon bottles go, the place where these monsoon rains would make puddles that leave an indelible mark in my soul. The place I found serenity midst chaos.