Hold Closely...

Dictionary Definition:

hug/verb

hold closely in one's arms, keep close to

hug/noun

a hugging movement

It's been a long time since I hugged someone. Since I really hugged someone. Since I really held them so close I could hear their heart beating, so tight I could almost not breathe, so completely as though we wouldn't ever let go, so lovingly, as though someone was filling warmth like a liquid into my entire frame, flesh and soul.

Hugging is a very powerful act, but people don't realise it. A 'little' thing, yet conveys a lot. Nothing else will give you the feeling of love, protection, security, kinship, comfort simultaneously in a potent mixture so magical it has no equal.

The last time someone hugged me was when a friend comforted me, fresh after someone else had quarrelled majorly with me, almost treacherously. I couldn't let go of her, and for the first time in my life I shed tears in public. The tears couldn't stop, but it didn't feel wrong, while I was in my friend's arms, receiving solace.

A hug is especially powerful when someone else gives it to you. And you can't expect to receive a hug unless that someone truly understands that you need comfort but can't express it, can't ask for it. A hug you ask for can never equal one you receive without asking. Because the latter means your friend knows you, cares for you and watches over you.

And nothing is so ecstatic and heart-warming as the knowledge, when you are feeling low and vulnerable, that you are so well loved by someone, who isn't of your blood or flesh, but treats you like you were.

Today is International Hug Day (apparently). 23 hours and 59 minutes have gone by since the day began, and I haven't yet received a hug from anyone. Probably because no one knows that it's Hug Day. And even more probably because a hug is something spontaneous. You don't need a special day for this.

But I miss a hug. It's been very long...

And that, every time, is what makes it so precious.

And Where's the Desire for Freedom?

I live in a cage. A condition to which I willingly resigned myself in exchange for an opportunity to shape my future by furthering my academic prowess (if that’s wht they have the temerity to title the crap they dish out here). I mean, this is quite literally a cage, because I’m under lock and key for nine hours every night. The fact that I keep the key notwithstanding.

The most ironic part of this arrangement is how we complained and screamed initially about it, and now one year down the line, we are so used to it, we can’t live without the cage. There was an outrage last night when I locked the gate half an hour later than the correct time.

It happens like that on a much wider scale to a broader extent in a huge variety of aspects of life too. We complain in outrage about our restrictions. About the subjugation we are forced to endure, to be allowed to exist. About the unfairness of it all. And then we get so comfortable in our cage, we don’t feel like leaving it. We feel insecure outside the cage. Without the lock. We don’t want to venture out, seek the path we so fervently once desired, spread our wings and learn to fly. And then we can’t bear to be allowed free. Even when we ourselves hold the key.

Beautiful

You're beautiful to me.

Even in your absence, your essence is enchanting.

I could capture your smile and engrave it in stone, and there would it remain carven for as long as weather chose.

I could enshrine the twinkle of your eyes in a single leaf on a single stalk of a single branch of a single plant, and it would grow thence, as long as the tree of love is watered.

I could weave your voice into the bars of the wind, and hear the sound of comfort caress me every time the earth breathes.

I could ensnare your laughter in the flame of fire, to shine bright and warm my soul, in the cold of the moonlit night.

Most precious of all is the pristine clarity of your mind, the flawless logic of your reason, and the magical madness of your creativity. Beautiful is the rationality of thought, and rational is its beauty.

And enthralling is your spirit, even in your absence.

And beautiful you are to me.

(Dedicated to ASR)

Hooked, and Bringing Others to It Too...

I'm a spoilt brat. I mean, I am spoilt now. Five times in four weeks have I perfumed my breath through flavoured water, and now I can finally achieve the feeling of floating amongst the clouds, simply through my breathing...

I love Nirvana. I love breathing it. And I love tasting it two hours later, when it is just a memory, sweet and sad.

Let me tell you of this person I wanna call Dragon Lady, coz one of my friends titled her that. Wild black hair cascading onto her shoulders, black clothes hugging faithful limbs, and white smoke issuing forth from her lips like dragon's breath frosted and moving in slow motion, twisting and curling through the air and spreading the essence of Nirvana to intoxicate all who are near enough to be captivated by the spell. Add a cigarette, and the picture of a female motorbike maniac, wild and dangerous, becomes complete. Though the cigarette ain't there yet in the picture, and the bike's missing too, so we're not quite there. But the Dragon Lady is still quite dragon-ish on her own. With the smoke still curling out from her lips...

She ain't alone. There are others too. The Happy Chords Lady, and the Stranger With Candy, with the Sweet Cute Sexy Chick too. It's girl's night out, and celebration with perfumed smoke just brought life back to dead people in a dead city. All hooked, and fantasy is reflected by the glimmer of a sparkling sheesha.

Existence ain't a pretty thing. But it can become beautiful, for a brief sliver of time, when you have an ambience that is the total opposite of reality. But smoke floats up, disperses and disappears, and when the mist clears, you're back to square one, ground zero, where you have to continue on the road you're building for yourself.

I guess that's okay. Coz too much smoke can choke you.

Hooked on It, and Now High Too...

I love hookah. Alright, I still don't know how to breathe it the right way, but I did it yesterday properly for the first time (my fourth session in three weeks, and I've just started), and I got my first real high.

Dry yet high.

My head feels dizzy, my stomach feels queasy, my world is spinning around me, and I wanna sleep off in this beautiful fragrance pervading within my body and without. The first high feels real good, especially since you've never had one before. Apart from the fact that you feel you shouldn't take any more else you'll puke, and you have like, next to zero capacity.

The taste lasts long, real long. It feels almost royal. But have it only when you have nothing immediate to think about. Coz the thought of that test the next day really kills the fun...

In Myself, I Rediscovered It...

"Do you see these balls hanging on the edakya? There are 64 balls, and each one represents and art form, and not just music, or dance, or architecture, or sculpture, but also painting, poetry, even reading and writing, because anything created by the mind is an art, and it is the combination of all of these arts, that is culture. And once the 64 balls are tied to the edakya it becomes sacred, and cannot thence be placed anywhere on the ground; it must always be carried upon the shoulder, or rested upon a hook. Because anything that has been created by the power of the mind, is sacred."

Dearest Appa,

I love you, and I miss you. And now I want once more to thank you, for another beautiful gift you left me as part of my inheritance from you, though whether foreseen or not I know not, and I care not.
 

As a child I never particularly noticed or perhaps even appreciated too deeply why you insisted on actually recording all the classical dance performances and music concerts that came on TV. I believe you were probably disappointed that I neither shared nor showed interest in something that is so rich and ancient and precious, and moreover, so beautiful and captivating.

You'd have loved to have known I attended a performance of MohiniAttam yesterday by Dr Deepti Bhalla, a renowned Mohini Attam exponent from Kerala. And I loved it. The lady herself was really accomplished, and a lot of what she spoke reminded me very forcefully and heart-rendingly of you, and the things you believed in, which again, somewhere, you've passed on to me.
 

And now I fully appreciate the worth of the trasure you left behind for me, in the form of cassettes and video recordings, preserved so that I might one day understand and enjoy our classical art forms. Maybe you didn't really intend it for that purpose; but the fact remains: you left for me something priceless, and I'll forever be grateful for that.
 

I love you, dad, and I miss you.

"The classical arts and art forms bring you closer to God, and when I say God, I don't mean any particular God; I mean the essence of godliness and humanity that is within you. When you are in a temple and are praying to God, you aren't actually calling to God, rather you are calling to yourself to be a better human being. And it is this desire, this prayer to the self, that is reflected in our ancient cultural art forms."

Hooked on Hookah

Take up a pipe, inhale sweet smelling smoke to your lungs, exhale gently and relax in the cool evening air with the luxurious perfume of your own breath caressing your senses and soothing your mind, to the accompaniment of soft music. An experience tailor designed to please and pamper the mind after all the crime the world gives you in a day.

It’s not indecent.

I don’t exactly know how to breathe in the smoke so that it goes out the right way. But I don’t care. The scent upon my breath intoxicates me, the taste upon my tongue, cheeks and palette thrills me, and my mood, earlier depressed, now comes to become sweet sorrow.

It’s not smoking.

Boozing, fagging, doping. All considered evil activities not worthy of superlative people. I used to think so too. But now I realise it’s not so. Okay, doping is evil. It needs to be eliminated. I have never been tempted and never will. Smoking is bad. Injure your own health and that of those around you. Once in fifteen days might be tolerable though. I have been tempted but never will. Drink is a personal choice. You’ll damage your own liver. Keep yourself in check, you’ll be fine. I have been tempted and perhaps might, in future.

It’s not harmful.

Hookahs, that way, are clean, safe, tolerable at the least. They aren’t physically or mentally habit forming but could be so emotionally. A nice way to finish off your frustration without harming yourself.

It’s not immoral.

I liked it.

The Sounds You Don't Hear

Dictionary Definition:

sound/noun

1. sensation in ears when surrounding sound vibrates

2. what is or may be heard

For the purpose of a dictionary, the Oxford people clubbed 'is' and 'may be' together. I think they should be different. Because you see, what 'is' heard and what 'may be' heard are very different. The first point of difference being what 'is' heard is always heard. What 'may be' heard is never really heard.

I've been rather depressed over the past few days.

Dictionary Definition:

depressed/adjective

1. ad and gloomy; dejected; downcast

2. Psychiatry suffering from depression

I haven't been able to eat. The food just dries up in my mouth. I can't eat unless I'm in a good mood, and that won't happen unless I'm in company and I'm feeling pleasant, at least temporarily.

All my friends were out one day a few days back and all day I was alone in my room. And no matter what I did, I didn't hear a single sound that is normally heard. I heard everything that I never manage to hear in the rush and bustle of our daily lives.

What 'is' heard? Feet running, voices chatting, people laughing, music playing, bikes zooming, water flowing, doors banging, phones ringing... the normal sounds of a hostel, with its busy life, and busy people.

What did I hear today? Sounds I'd never heard before. Sounds one hears only when it's silent.

Dictionary Definition:

silence/noun

1. absence of sound

2. abstinence from speech or noise

I heard silence. Not absolute, but the kind of silence that's present when common sounds are absent.

I heard the patter of tiny footsteps and the squeaks of a squirrel foraging for food, as I looked around to find a little snack.

I heard the cooing of a pigeon that had launched on my window sill, looking for a place to build its nest, as I looked out far away, remembering the gardens of my home.

I heard the soughing of the wind in the trees, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves on the ground, as I looked up at the sky to drink in the glorious colour of sunset.

I heard the ticking of my wrist watch, a quiet reminder to use my time carefully and cherish precious moments, as time passes on and the love of my life sets down his path, imperceptibly but irretrievably moving away from me.

I heard the rustle of my clothes, my hair and my skin, the innate tones and tunes of my own person, as I moved from one position to another, to suit the comfort of my muscles.

I heard the music of the slow dance performed by my lungs, breathing to sustain the life I live, as I move, walk and work.

And as I lay in bed to slumber, I heard, most intimately, the steady rhythmic beating of my own heart, beating to keep my life, beating that I might live and love and overcome the greatest challenge that could be posed to me... myself.

The Ad Hoc Chronicles!

You know one major reason why college is different from school? It’s because of the people who teach you whatever you’re supposed to learn. In school you’re faced with professional experienced hard core teachers who know what they’re doing (or at least put up a good show of it). In college, you come across this whole new exciting category of people, called ad hoc lecturers (or ad hocs, for the purpose of convenience). They generally tend to be graduates or post graduates fresh out of their education and onto teaching for a trial period, or for a bit of experience. And they are exciting, for several reasons.

First of all, and most obviously, the fact that ad hocs in general tend to be of the category that can send your hormones racing. It happens for both guys and gals. Nobody minds the dullest subject, if what you get in return is visual ambrosia. The entertaining part of the scene begins when the ad hoc in question gets an inkling of the existence of the ambrosia factor, and begins to ponder the real reason behind the strong attendance of so many devil-may-care, canteen-is-heaven young people! Especially when chronic back-benchers race for the first bench, and look like half-wits while the lecture is proceeding.

Next but equally, ad hocs are great favourites because of the bloopers and blunders they make while trying to educate their audience, who often have the upper hand, but prefer to enjoy the drama being played out. You get the one-liners… and then you get the masterpieces as well. It’s one thing when someone uses the definite article in English grammar (that means the word ‘the’) in a sentence, as though sprinkling cheese on pizza, (for example, ‘this is the not the correct way to do it, and it will the fetch you the bad marks in the exam’) but it totally beats all resistance to exasperation when the entire class is trying hard and unsuccessfully to explain the fact (to a totally unconvinced young teacher) that one mole of water does not quite contain two molecules of hydrogen and one molecule of oxygen! And then who is going to forget the lovely time they had, when every query with regard to Cochran boilers was met by an everlasting, never-changing negative!

Okay, I’m not implying that ad hocs are idiotic or useless. There have been several lovely moments in the lab, when you’re sitting down frustrated because the idiotic piece of machinery you’re supposed to be fooling around with is not working, yet you’re not worried, because you have three or four ad hocs conferencing over the situation, and arguing amongst themselves on what the problem is and how it is to be solved!

The most wickedly funny part is the fact that ad hocs cannot too easily be recognised as ad hocs. I and a couple of friends traveling home in the train once met this person and got talking to him. One strapping young friend of mine began to blast our college faculty, and the ad hocs in particular, and one specific ad hoc, only to be told by the other guy, quite obviously, that he himself was an ad hoc in the same department in our own college. There’s a colloquial saying to describe this kind of situation. “Waat lag gayi…”

Okay, but besides all the brickbats that they get, you can’t forget the bouquets that they deserve. Because who else is going to patiently reset the apparatus in a highly sensitive experiment every time you upset it, who else will show you how to do it right for the practical test, who else will tell you secret tips and tricks to make that stupid machine work, who else will bail you out with the exasperating ordeal you face in the viva later on, and who else will help you out with all the crazy and even insane doubts you face at the last minute before the final exams? Your friendly ad hoc teacher, of course!